Chapter 7

All things considered, Bashir's day had been quiet. By the time he was ducking out to meet Sawyer for dinner, he'd done all he could with his two exceptional cases. He'd also completed a routine autopsy on a seemingly healthy middle-aged man who'd dropped dead at the gym. It hadn't revealed anything suspicious or worrisome; though Bashir had spent the entire procedure certain he was going to find some obscure poison, bizarre parasite, or impossible but lethal wound. What could he say? The cases of Upworth and White had him on a hair trigger for What the fuck?

In the end, the autopsy's revelation was neither unusual nor shocking—a massive heart attack brought on by severe atherosclerosis. In fact, the coronary arteries had so much plaque, the only real surprise was that the man had lived as long as he had. Bashir had triple-checked everything, certain he'd missed something, but no—he was just jumpy after two bizarre cases had landed in his lap with deceptively obvious causes of death masking the far stranger realities.

Bashir wrote up his report since he had time to do them himself instead of handing them off. Then he signed the necessary forms and made an appointment for next week to get his own cholesterol checked.

Now the day was over, there was nothing left to be done, and Bashir couldn't help being suspicious.

"There has to be something else." He looked around the morgue from his office door. "Are we sure there's no one else waiting to be autopsied?"

Tami laughed softly, pulling her own office door shut behind her. "Even if they did, you're not doing them until tomorrow anyway."

There was that. Autopsies were done first thing in the morning. Always. If someone came in at three in the afternoon, they stayed in the cooler until ten the next day. That was how every morgue Bashir had ever worked in operated, and it was the schedule he'd lived and breathed for his entire career.

Everything just felt… off the rails lately. Upworth and White had thrown him for a loop.

And admittedly, so had Detective Villeray. Who he was meeting tonight. For dinner.

For a date .

Was that why he was so twitchy about leaving? Not because he was afraid he was neglecting something in the morgue, but because he was having second thoughts about tonight?

Both. Probably both.

But there really was no reason for him to stay late, and he was curious about how an evening with the persistent and… okay, fine, incredibly attractive Villeray would go. Plus this would probably be their one and only opportunity for a while. Murder investigations were harsh mistresses, an d they'd both be eating takeout at their desks more often than not until the cases were solved.

Which… if things went south with Villeray, then at least he'd be too busy to ask Bashir for another date for the foreseeable, so Bashir wouldn't have to figure out a tactful way to reject him.

He locked his office door. "I'm heading out. I have plans for once."

Tami's eyebrows jumped. "You do? Like… like plans? The kinds of plans normal people have?"

He shot her a look, but couldn't help chuckling when she offered an innocent smile. "Yes, Tami." He pocketed his keys. "In fact, maybe I'll get lucky and my date won't get interrupted." Yeah, that would be the day.

"Oh, really?" She grinned. "Another date? Did that guy from the other night decide to give you another shot?"

The guy from… The other night… What?

But then the piece clicked into place and he remembered Max and their truncated attempt at dinner. Why did that feel like months ago? Probably because the two cases of fuckery that had dropped into his lap had made time go wonky.

Clearing his throat, Bashir pulled on his jacket. "No, I don't think he's interested. I, um…" He tugged at one of his sleeves. "I decided to take Detective Villeray up on his—"

"You're going out with him? " she squeaked. "Are you serious? "

He blinked, caught off-guard by her sudden shift. "Um. Yes?"

She scoffed. "What? Why? You said you don't date cops. And I thought you didn't like him!"

"I don't. And I didn't." Bashir shrugged. "But I guess he's kind of growing on me. "

"Mildew grows on things," she muttered. "So does fungus."

He chuckled and rolled his eyes as he started for the door. "Villeray's a little more charming than either of those things."

She followed. "Black mold, then?"

"Tami." He shook his head. "He's a decent guy. And it's just a date." He huffed a humorless laugh as he pushed open the door for both of them. "Maybe it'll go well. Maybe it won't. As long as we can get through dinner without anyone dying, I'll call it a win."

She frowned but said nothing until they were in the parking garage, at which point she gave him a curt goodbye before continuing to her car. He watched her go, trying to make sense of her sudden one-eighty.

Shaking his head, Bashir got into his own car. She did have a jealous bone when it came to him and they both knew it. He was used to that. And admittedly, what he was doing with Sawyer was out of the ordinary for him. He did not date cops. That was just asking for a relationship where they never saw each other unless they ended up at the same crime scene or in the same courtroom.

He was getting way ahead of himself, though. They weren't dating. It was one date. It was just dinner, really. By the time the entrees arrived, they'd probably both realize this was never going to last, and they'd just agree to enjoy a relaxed meal with a colleague with no pressure and no expectations. Then they'd split the bill, go their separate ways, hopefully not be awkward and uncomfortable the next time they had to be together in a professional capacity.

Best-case scenario? They made it through dinner without someone dying .

With the way this week was going, Bashir wasn't holding his breath.

Sitting alone in the restaurant with a half-empty glass of ice water, Bashir had more than a few second thoughts. There was the whole dating cops thing. And the fact that he'd found Villeray more annoying than attractive in the beginning.

It also felt weird, going out on a date in the middle of investigating two bizarre deaths. Bashir kept telling himself that taking a night or even an hour off to do something close to normal was probably what they both needed to tackle their respective angles of the cases tomorrow. Though neither of their jobs were conducive to it, rest was important if they wanted to stay sharp.

Plus, they had to eat sometime. Might as well step away from everything, shut it all off for a while, and return to the cases with full bellies and fresh eyes. Those wouldn't help much in the absence of things like test results and useful leads, but still.

Though what if Villeray turned out to be one of those cops who couldn't get through a meal without telling gory tales of his job? Like that one nurse Bashir had dated a few years back who'd been mystified that most people—including his pathologist boyfriend—didn't want to discuss bodily fluids, functions, or the failures thereof over dinner. Especially dinner in public. To this day, Bashir wanted to shrivel up and die remembering the woman who'd overheard Jesse describing… well, those details didn't matter, but the point was that she heard more than she wanted to, and her prime rib made a violent reappearance. Bashir had ap ologized profusely and paid for the entire table's meal, and he still wondered sometimes if Jesse had ever figured out why anyone—including Bashir—had been upset.

"Stuff like that happens all the time," he'd insisted on the drive home. "What's the big deal?"

"It happens all the time to emergency department nurses," Bashir had explained through gritted teeth. "The general population doesn't see it on a daily basis, and they definitely don't go to restaurants like that to hear about it in graphic detail!"

"Pfft. It isn't like I was talking about—"

"Jesse. Don't."

Jesse hadn't. But the damage had been done, and if Detective Villeray displayed that level of obliviousness at the dinner he'd persuaded Bashir to have with him, it was entirely possible someone would die before the meal was over.

I'm getting too cynical.

Bashir laughed to himself as he took another sip of water. Yeah, he was. But between his appalling excuse for a love life and the sometimes jarring look at humanity provided by his career, well, a certain level of cynicism came with the territory. Probably explained why he was still single at forty-three and—

"Oh my God." Detective Villeray appeared beside the table with an apologetic smile. "I did not mean to be that late."

Bashir couldn't define the mix of emotions vying for dominance. Relief that he wasn't being stood up. Dread over the inevitable train wreck this date would be. A little exhilaration because, holy shit, Villeray was here. A whole host of other contradictory feelings that somehow didn't cancel each other out .

He managed to school his expression, though, and he rose, offering a hand, which felt weird. A handshake on a date seemed… too formal and stilted. Anything else seemed too casual and unprofessional. Christ. He was terrible at dates on the best of days. When the other guy was a colleague? That just made it all complicated and confusing.

Unaware of Bashir's mind spinning out, Villeray gestured at the vacant chair and raised his eyebrows. Bashir nodded, and they both took their seats.

For a moment, they stared at each other with all the poise and confidence of a pair of fifteen-year-olds on a first date while their parents watched from two booths away. The awkwardness was almost physically painful, and Bashir actually hoped for a moment that his phone might ring. He didn't want anyone to die to get him out of this awful standoff, but was a ruptured water main at his house too much to ask? Maybe a burglar setting off his alarm and—

"Jesus." Villeray laughed, breaking eye contact as a blush rose in his cheeks. "I'm so bad at this. First I'm late, and now…"

It was kind of annoying how charming and adorable he was when he was flustered. Bashir waved down a server so Villeray could order a drink, then said, "I'm not much better, so we're a good pair."

Ugh. That little smile. The look through his lashes. Cops weren't supposed to be cute. Or shy.

The server mercifully didn't keep them waiting long, and the pause gave them both a chance to rally and try again. Once the server had gone, Villeray cleared his throat. "Listen, uh, I mean it—I'm really sorry I kept you waiting. I'm usually on time to everything, but stupid me, I thought I could get down Division Avenue in under fifteen minutes."

Despite himself, Bashir laughed. "Hope springs eternal, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but I spent enough time patrolling this area, I fucking know better." He wrinkled his nose and made a dismissive gesture. "We don't need to talk about work, though. At all."

Bashir blinked. "You don't like talking about work?"

"Not when I'm off the clock, no."

Well. Thank God for that.

"I agree," he said. "Not that my job makes very good dinner table conversation."

Villeray made a face. "Okay, I'm glad you said it, because…" Grimacing, he shook his head.

Bashir couldn't help laughing. "Hey, you'd be surprised."

"Yeah? People actually want to talk about that over dinner?"

Bashir just rolled his eyes and nodded.

Villeray shuddered. "No, thanks. Uh, no offense."

"None taken." Bashir paused. "So, um… If we're both completely off the clock and not even talking about work, I guess calling you ‘Detective' might be… uh…" He cleared his throat. "Now that I think about it, I don't even know your first name."

That smile was seriously disarming. Jesus Christ. "Sawyer."

Oh. Right. Now he remembered hearing Villeray's—Sawyer's—partner using it. "Got it," he said. "Well, as long as we're off the clock, you can call me Bashir."

Sawyer nodded his acknowledgment, the smile still firmly in place and screwing with Bashir's pulse.

Maybe this date hadn't been such a huge mistake after all .

They did eventually crack open the menus and figure out their entrees. After the server had arrived with Sawyer's drink and taken their dinner orders, Sawyer shifted in his chair and held Bashir's gaze. "Okay, so, no shop talk or gory stuff at the table, but, um…" He hesitated. "Is the subject completely off limits?"

Guarded, Bashir studied him as he tucked his reading glasses back into his pocket. "That depends."

"I'm just curious." Sawyer folded his hands behind his glass. "You said you were aiming to be a doctor before you went into pathology, but dealing with the living was too much." He tilted his head. "What was your plan before that? I mean… like did you want to be a family doctor? A specialist?"

"Oh." Bashir relaxed a little, absently running a finger through the condensation on his glass. "Family medicine. My mother was a pediatrician and my dad was a general practitioner, so it's in my blood, I guess."

Sawyer nodded. "Sounds like it. How did they take it when you… took a different path?"

Bashir laughed. "They were surprised, that's for sure. But they both got it."

"Yeah? So they didn't object to it?"

"Nah." Bashir shook his head. "They did rotations too, and they've also seen—well, you don't work in medicine without seeing some pretty harrowing stuff, let's put it that way. And my mom actually warmed up to it pretty quick because she liked the idea of someone with a family medicine mindset working in pathology."

"How so?" Sawyer sounded genuinely curious, not like he was humoring him or digging for something morbid like so many other people did.

The scrutiny made Bashir a little nervous, and he stared into his drink. "You have to have a lot of empathy and compassion for that job. Family medicine, I mean. You're seeing people of all ages. All lifestyles. All cultures. So the mindset you need to work with that—it's good to carry into pathology, too. You treat the body of a bank robber with the same care and respect you do an elderly grandmother." He paused. "Even someone who was shot by the police or who got drunk and killed someone. You can have all the thoughts and opinions you want about the way they lived their lives or the things they did, but you still treat their body with care and respect."

This was where a lot of people—especially cops, in Bashir's experience—usually had an opinion or three about how much care or respect the body of a mass shooter or drunk driver deserved.

Sawyer nodded along, though. "So, you're not there to judge people. Just figure out how they died."

It wasn't that simple—autopsies weren't solely to establish cause and manner of death—but the rest of it? Yeah, that was on point. "Basically. My mom believes it's as important for a pathologist to have the same level of empathy as a physician who works with the living. My dad wasn't so sure about that at first, since he thought it was wasted on the dead, but he came around."

"What changed his mind?"

"Time. My mom." Bashir paused. "And also when he testified in a wrongful death case."

Sawyer sat up. "Yeah?"

"Mmhmm. The defense was trying to paint the victim as the perpetrator. Saying they instigated the situation, and…" Bashir waved a hand. "Anyway, I don't recall all the details, but my dad called me up after he was in court one day to tell me he fully supported my career path. He said af ter listening to the pathologist acting so cold and apathetic toward the decedent, he understood what my mom and I meant about empathy. And then later on, he called me again because it turned out that pathologist had been so preemptively convinced that the decedent was a useless drug addict, he'd been sloppy with the autopsy and overlooked some critical details."

"No shit?" Sawyer made a disgusted sound as he picked up his glass. "Tell me he's not a pathologist anymore after that came to light."

"No, definitely not. He lost his license, and I think the RCMP is still investigating his past cases to figure out if he botched any others. Everyone who was ever convicted or found liable based even slightly on one of his reports is demanding to have their cases reopened." Bashir pushed out a harsh breath. "It's a mess, that's for sure."

"I bet." Sawyer furrowed his brow. "RCMP, huh? Did your parents move to Canada? Or is that where you're from?"

Bashir couldn't help chuckling. Trust a detective to pick up that detail. "You got me. I'm Canadian."

"Huh. So what in the hell brought you"—Sawyer gestured around the room—"here?"

"Here? Well, you see, this detective was very insistent about taking me to dinner, and—"

The laugh and the eyeroll were more endearing than they had any right to be. "Very funny. I meant why would you leave behind all that maple syrup, hockey, and universal healthcare for all this shit?"

"I saw all the geese coming down here and wondered if they were on to something?"

He wasn't avoiding the question. He really wasn't. He just couldn't help teasing when it made Sawyer laugh like that, or when it made his eyes sparkle with mischief.

"Okay, seriously." He rested his arms on the edge of the table. "It's not that exciting. There was a job opening for a forensic pathologist. I applied. They hired me." He shrugged. "So here I am."

"Well, damn," Sawyer said with mock disappointment. "And here I thought the Bashir Ramin origin story would involve some kind of international scandal and intrigue."

Bashir snorted. "Like what? That I was wanted for trying to ride a moose while drunk?"

Sawyer's eyebrow flicked up. "Did you try to ride a—"

"No, of course not." Bashir huffed a breath as he reached for his drink. "Do you have any idea how hard moose are to ride? You gotta be sober for that shit."

The burst of laughter from Sawyer was absolutely worth the uncharacteristically ridiculous comment.

Grinning, he said, "So what about you? Is your origin story more interesting than mine?"

"Uh, well." Sawyer pursed his lips. "There aren't any moose involved, but it is—"

He froze, the amusement vanishing from his expression.

A split second later, Bashir understood why—the muffled ring of a cell phone.

"Shit." Sawyer dug into his pocket. "I'm sorry. I gotta take this."

Bashir nodded his understanding. God knew he'd been there. And didn't it just figure he couldn't get through a date without someone—

His own phone buzzed in his pocket.

You have got to be shitting me.

Exhaling hard, he took it out and accepted the call .

In under a minute, they'd both ended their calls, and they locked eyes over the table.

Sawyer glanced at Bashir's phone. "Let me guess—body found behind a grocery store with eyes and tongue cut out?"

Bashir sighed. "Maybe we should carpool."

Sawyer gave a dry laugh, and he flagged down their server. As Sawyer explained the situation and handed over his credit card, Bashir couldn't help the disappointment. He'd shift gears and focus on the deceased as soon as he was at the scene, but admittedly, he gave himself a moment to be a little bummed out and pissed off that something had interrupted this date before it had even gotten off the ground. Because despite himself—despite his certainty that this would be a disaster—he'd been warming up quickly to Sawyer. He hadn't even had a chance to hear Sawyer tell him about his life, where he came from, how he'd ended up here. If all the rumors about his messy Hollywood dynasty family were true.

Maybe they could try this again another time. But for now, they had work to do. From the sound of it, the body had been there for at most thirty, maybe forty minutes, and just going by the dispatcher's description, time of death hadn't been much earlier than that. CSIs were en route, cops had secured the area, and the responding officer was diligently photographing and documenting everything. There was nothing anyone could do to save the person, but maybe they could figure out who'd murdered them.

After Sawyer had settled up with the restaurant, he and Bashir hurried out, heading for the parking garage. They really could've carpooled, but that would just turn heads and start rumors. Neither of them needed that, and once they were on scene, no one needed to be focused on anyone except the decedent, witnesses, and next of kin .

"I guess I'll see you there," Bashir muttered.

"Yeah." Keys jingled in Sawyer's hand. "See you there."

They exchanged glances, then headed in opposite directions.

He'd made it all of two steps, when…

"Bashir."

He turned around. "Hmm?"

Sawyer held his gaze for a moment, jaw working as if he were trying to figure out what he wanted to say.

Then he took a step closer.

Cupped the sides of Bashir's neck.

And kissed him.

Bashir tensed at first—hell, he was already tense because he was heading to a death scene—but he couldn't help relaxing into Sawyer's touch. Into the intriguing softness of his lips and the scuff of his chin.

It was quick. A handful of seconds. This really wasn't the time or place to indulge in more—not when duty called—but when they came up for air, they were both breathing hard.

"Sorry." Sawyer's fingers were light and a little unsteady on Bashir's neck before he let go. "I just, uh…" He swallowed. "Didn't want tonight to end without doing that."

Then he strode away toward his car, leaving Bashir standing there with his head spinning and his lips tingling.

Only for a second, though. He shook himself, pulled on his professionalism, and shifted his concentration to the decedent as he continued toward his own car.

But after they were done investigating this scene, he vowed to himself, there would be a second date.