FanFic - Holding On (Part One)

I must say that I am a glutton for punishment. Everyone remembers my opus, Letting Go, from last year? I had many requests (you know who you are) for McCall's version. So, over the past few months, I have slowly worked on it. Here is a quick, unedited version. I was in the mood to write this morning and here it is.

No promises, however, on how soon future chapters will be posted. Besides, we all know how it ends, right???

Juliann

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Dee Dee McCall sighed with pleasure as she returned her husband's kisses with an urgency she hadn't remembered in quite some time. It had been over a week since they had made love, and like a wanton woman, she leaped into his arms the moment she came home from work.

She shivered with delight as his hand crept under the thin silk of her nightgown, cupping her breast as he kissed the hollow of her throat. She could feel how much he wanted her as he lay against her.

Her eyes opened as she strained to hear the noise. A knocking on the door. "Who in the hell?" she wondered. Steven invaded her thoughts with his tongue as he kissed her once more, forcing her mouth to open as he explored the recesses within it.

But she heard it a second time. Damn. Dee Dee smiled into Steven's dark eyes and giggled at his look of remorse.

"Stay here, I'll get it," she whispered as she gently pushed him off her. "Save your strength, tiger," she added wickedly, and rolled out of the bed, pulling her short nightgown that had gathered to her waist back down to where it belonged. She grabbed her robe and pulled it over her thin shoulders as she made her way to the front door, turning on a lamp in the process.

"Who is it?" she asked through the closed door as she tied her robe tighter, and then looked out through the peep hole.

"It's Sergeant Rick Hunter."

A-ha. She'd finally put a face to the name. Steven's partner of six months. The best partner he'd ever had, Steven told her a million times. Hunter this, Hunter that. The man was a machine, or so she'd been told.

She opened the door and smiled at an extraordinarily tall man with light brown hair and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Her cop instinct gave him the once-over and he seemed to pass the first test. "Steve said he wanted these as soon as they came in," Hunter told her as his gaze took her in.

He was obviously embarassed at catching them in an intimate moment, she concluded, and she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh at his expense. His cheeks flushed a bright crimson as she laughed at him. "Come on in," she invited.

She went to Steve's side as he looked over the file that now had a name -- Rodney Alistair Moody. As he and Rick discussed the suspect, she eyed the tall sergeant suspiciously. Long, narrow legs were clad in tight Levis and a brown leather jacket hung from amazingly wide shoulders. His hair was a soft brown, and was probably blonde in his younger years, she deducted. She sensed that he was as obsessed with justice as her own husband.

She was brought out of her once-over of Sgt. Rick Hunter when her ears perked up at the knowledge that Steve was ready to stake out this Moody guy right then and there. And dammit, no one, not even Rick Hunter, was going to ruin her evening of sexual pleasure. One she had been anticipating for over a week after she discovered she was stuck yet again on another week of 3 to 11 at Hollenbeck. But it was a small price to pay on her fast-track to the rank of detective.

So, in a demure yet authoritative tone, she informed her husband that chasing this Moody character was too risky. She knew her husband well enough to form her thoughts into a question that put him on alert, while at the same time told him that he should be making better use of his time in bed with her than chasing Rodney Moody.

"Is she always like this?" Hunter quipped, the playful sarcasm in his voice unmistakeable.

"You mean smart, cautious, by the book?" Steve replied, his grasp around her waist tightening.

"Yeah."

Satisfied that she had manipulated the evening to suit her own needs, she smiled warmly at Hunter, whose huge hand swallowed her own as she shook his hand. "You know, Steve talks about you all the time," he said to her. Her heart leaped. After only a little more than two years, they still had that newlywed feeling.

"Well, now you know the awful truth," she responded playfully. She watched him leave and then locked the door behind him. She turned and looked into her husband's eyes -- the ones that were as dark as her own. "Okay now, back to bed, buster."

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The phone rang right beside her ear. It almost scared the living daylights out of her. The night was just not going the way she had planned. At least they had finished before the phone rang, she thought glumly as she reached out from under Steve to grab the phone.

She handed the receiver to Steve when she realized it was for him, and then propped herself up on her elbows when she saw his naked form retreat from the bed and begin to dress.

She bit her tongue. She saw the motivation . . . the obsession . . . the desire for justice in his eyes. They promised each other years ago that they wouldn't argue about police work, neither his nor hers.

"I'll be back before the pillow gets cold," he told her, kissing her longingly. She smiled for his benefit alone, but inside, her heart hurt. She could count on one hand how many times in the past six months they had actually fallen asleep in each other's arms after making love. It was a glorious feeling, one that she missed terribly. This "God-I-missed-you-I-can't-wait-any-longer" type of sex just wasn't cutting it.

But a promise was a promise.

"I love you, babe," he whispered to her as he saw the disappointment in her eyes. Her heart filled.

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She had been reading the same paragraph for about two hours, she realized, as she glanced at the bedside clock for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Why didn't he call? She had tried to sleep without him, but sleeping alone was a feat she had yet to master. She was so used to having his long, lean body curled next to her own that the bed seemed way too big for just her.

The knock at the door made her heart plummet into her stomach. She pulled her robe on again and went to the peep hole, following the same path she had hours earlier when Rick Hunter stood on her doorstep. And there he stood again.

And in her heart, she knew there was only one reason why he would be standing there at 4:38 in the morning, without Steven at his side. Every cop's wife knew what it meant, and so did every cop, so for her, it was a double whammy.

"Where's Steve?" she demanded. She watched the tall sergeant's shoulders slump, his eyes now a milky blue as he struggled to find words.

"Steve was shot," he finally told her, edging past her slight frame without an invitation.

"Where is he? Which hospital did they take him to?"

The words he spoke burned permanently onto her heart and soul like a branding iron. "He died on the way," he said. "I'm so sorry."

She felt her knees buckle as the words sunk in. "Oh, God, no," she heard herself sob over and over as the man she met only a few hours ago took her in his arms and guided her to the couch. It couldn't be happening. No. Not Steve.

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She shivered as she stood in the stark green hallway, waiting for Hunter to return. She had been to the city morgue on numerous occasions, and the sanitary smell of death had always rattled her. She stared down at her feet, her body numb. Her mind was numb, too. She was still in the throes of denial.

She had to see him. It was the only way, she knew. She had to see for herself that he was dead.

A large arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. A man that size was pretty darn quiet on his feet, she though, startled that Hunter had returned from his conversation with the medical examiner so quickly.

"He's ready," Hunter told her, and guided her to where Steve was. She went into the big room, and watched as the attendant pulled out the screechy metal drawer, No. 17 to be exact, that sported a yellow plastic sheet covering a body. Bile rose in her throat as she trudged along, feeling Hunter's gentle push on her shoulder blades.

He had tried to talk her out of going to the morgue. To no avail. She had to do this.

The attendant pulled the sheet down, and tears simultaneously began to flow down her pale cheeks in rivers. There he lay, her husband, her friend, her soul mate. The man who swept her off her feet when she entered the police academy and taught her everything she knew about police life. He taught her how to love and how to be loved. The man she promised to love and honor as long as they both lived. The man she wanted to gift with children that looked like both of them, with ebony colored hair and eyes the color of deep chocolate.

But his eyes were closed, as if he was sleeping peacefully. She went closer, and pulled the sheet down further. His blood-soaked shirt remained, revealing a hole in his chest that killed him almost instantly. She put her hand to his head, running her fingers through his thick, dark hair. Her other hand held his, now cold and lifeless. She watched her tears spill upon his stubbled cheek as she leaned over and kissed him. His lips were cold, but they were still Steven's. And the fact that his lips were on her body only hours earlier as they made love tore her heart in two.

"I love you," she told him, hoping that part of his spirit still lingered, waiting for her permission to be released. She had to let him know that she would love him forever. "I'll never forget you."

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McCall had never discussed Steve's funeral arrangements -- or her own, for that matter -- with her husband. She sat in the office wearing dress slacks and a blouse, her makeup and hair perfect, as the funeral director discussed her options. Another woman sat in the chair, she thought, almost as if her soul was standing in the corner behind her, watching herself.

A wooden casket, she decided. It looked nice. It didn't take long to pick it out. Steve was an outdoors kind of guy, when he had the time. No, she didn't want it open. And she didn't want people flocking to the funeral home in droves. She'd never be able to take it. Private, just for family, she said. And that meant just her, and her mother, although McCall figured he rmother would stay away. Her mother had loved Steven like her own son, and she was taking his death hard, while at the same time, was using his death as a weapon to try to make her only child quit the force.

McCall wanted a graveside service with full honors, and knew she'd get what she wanted. The commissioner, commander, and her captain tried to no avail to console her and bestow accolades on Steve's behalf to her. The press was merciless. All she wanted to do was bury her husband with dignity and honor. And for everyone else to leave her alone.

No, Steven's parents were deceased, she told the director, giving him obituary information. No, they didn't have any children. No, he had no brothers or sisters. Only her. And she only had him, with the exception of her mother, who was guarding her house and answering the hundreds of telephone calls that seemed neverending.

She brought his navy dress blue uniform, size 40 Long jacket and 32 x 32 dress slacks, with her to the arrangements, and instructed that she wanted him buried in it. And she wanted to see him one last time before she put him into the ground.

Pall bearers? She had no clue. Finally, she haphazardly thought of a few names Steven had mentioned over the years. People he respected. And last on the list was Rick Hunter. He was Steve's partner and friend, and she knew Steve would want it this way.

But no one was telling her how to fix her broken heart.

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Keeping it together for the sake of the force was difficult. She remained stoic as she rode in the limousine following the hearse that carried Steve's casket. She was astounded by how many people lined the road into the cemetery. Solemn seemed like a good adjective to describe the mourners, most of them in black or dressed in LAPD garb. She stood there, alone, in her place as the grieving widow, watching the six pall bearers in their dress blues, carrying Steven's body.

The tears didn't come until the flag was being folded, and the minister who married them proclaimed him ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. She bent her head, not able to look at it any longer. All was silent, except for the silent weeping and sniffles she could hear amidst the crowd around her. She saw a huge pair of feet in front of her, and looked up with her tear-streaked face into the sorrowful, yet glittering blue eyes of Rick Hunter. He handed her the flag that was draped over the casket and Steve's hat.

A glimmer of sadness appeared on his face as she took them into her arms. She assumed he would go to his place, and was pleasantly surprised when he turned and stood next to her. She felt his left arm drape around her shoulders, and she felt an overwhelming feeling of loss, yet at the same time, relief. Unable to stop, she leaned her full weight into this man who was built like a giant stone wall, and finally gave in to the nervous breakdown she knew she was entitled to. It was as if he had given her permission to drop her guard as a police officer and grieve her husband like a wife should.

Deep, mournful sobs erupted from deep within her as the service ended. Hunter helped her to the casket, picking a white rose from the huge arrangement beside it and handing it to her. She inhaled the sweet scent and gently laid it on the casket. She caressed the smooth wood and choked out "I'll always love you."

She watched Hunter pull a red rose from the same arrangement and lay it beside hers. He slipped his hand around hers, enveloping it firmly in his grasp. "I'll miss you, partner. Watch over us from wherever you are. And don't worry, I'll take care of her." The words echoed inside her head as she gazed up at him in surprise. What did that mean? I'll take care of her?

He held her hand as he led her to the waiting limousine. In a gentlemanly fashion, he helped her inside and leaned in toward her. "Do you need anything? Is there anything else I can do?"

She knew he was only doing this out of a sense of obligation. Partners did that. But regardless of the reason, she was touched. "No, you've gone above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you for everything you've done. Steve would have been pleased," she said. "I'm glad you were his partner."

"Take care. You call if you need me."

"I will."

She watched Hunter pull his shades from his pocket and put them on as he watched the limousine drove off. She turned her head and watched him standing there, long legs apart, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched her leave. Little did she know, it would be six months before she spoke to or saw him again.

*****************

McCall searched through her closet for the silver halter she knew was stashed somewhere. She glanced at the boxes surrounding her in the walk-in closet. It had been six months since Steven's death and she was procrastinating miserably in regard to unpacking the remainder of the boxes since she had moved. She could no longer live in the house she and Steve had bought just before they married.

Every wall, every room held too many blissful memories of him. Thanks to a swelling housing market in Studio City, she got a nice price for the house, banked the sizeable amount of extra cash and moved into an apartment complex with a secured gate and lots of elderly female neighbors.

There was a lot to be said for peace and tranquility. She didn't want to be asked questions. She wanted a place to let her guard down. And now that she was a brand-new homicide detective, she craved it even more. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered the pinning ceremony from only a week ago when she was given her sergeant's bars and the rank of detective. Given? Nah, she earned it. Definitely.

Finally, she found what she was looking for. She hadn't worn it since she was 17 years old, at some disco place when she was a senior in high school. She put it on -- or squeezed it on, rather -- and then gazed at herself in the full-length mirror. Hot purple lycra made the capri pants she was wearing look like they were painted on her thin frame. The silver halter top was tied around her neck and around her back with thin strings. She smiled, realizing her chest had gotten bigger since high school, thank God. The faux diamond stud was glued lightly into her bellybutton, and her feet with silver-painted toenails glimmered in her flashy silver stilettos.

She had let her brunette hair grow longer since Steve died, in an attempt to change things. Get on with her life. Thanks to a red hot curling iron and super-mega spritz, her hair was curled and wild. Thick makeup and the biggest jewelry ever seen at the corner junk store completed her ensemble. And she was damn pleased with herself.

She was going to nail that bastard King Hayes if it was the last thing she did. She was tired of seeing more and more prostitutes murdered in the bowels of the city thanks to that pig. Her latest partner, Alan, was an asshole, however. She was able to erect the same wall up to protect herself from him and every other partner she had ever had -- guarding against the lewd comments and propositions. How many of them referred to her as "baby, honey, sweetheart," or "kid." Okay, so she was only 28 years old. Pretty damn young for a detective, and a female, no less. But she could kick some serious ass along with the best of them.

She laughed at the stares of her elderly neighbors as she walked past them in her hooker getup toward her brand-new flashy red Dodge Daytona. Her pride and joy. It was light and fast, just like her. It was one of the only things that brought her joy any more. She ordered it with a special V8 engine that could go from 0 to 60 in mere seconds.

"Dee Dee, are you going to work dressed like that?" her favorite neighbor asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Onderdung," she replied, stopping to chat for just a moment. "I've got a pimp to catch." The older woman snickered. They knew she was a police officer, but they were protective of her just the same, and it warmed her heart.

"Well, I hope you catch him," the woman replied. "Your mother would have a stroke if she saw you in that outfit."

****************

McCall had a hard time feeling sorry for that son-of-a-bitch she called a partner. Damn that Alan. She had King Hayes almost where she wanted him and Alan came busting in like John Wayne. And he got stabbed in the process. She watched them load him into the ambulance. Her cover wasn't broken, which was a miracle. She shook her head as Alan moaned with discomfort.

"Is he gonna live?" she asked the EMT.

"Yeah. He'll be all right. Nothing a little surgery won't fix," he said.

"Hey, McCall-baby," Alan called out. "Call my wife, will ya?"

"Yeah, sure, Alan." It killed her to swallow her tongue and not add "you damn moronic asshole" to the end of her reply. And it was then that she noticed the time. She was going to be late to briefing.

******************

Breathless, McCall raced up the stairs instead of taking the elevator to L.A. Metro Homicide's briefing room. She was one of only 3 women of homicide detectives, where men outnumbered them 20 to 1. She rushed into the room, not realizing that her boss, Commander Cain, was in the middle of introducing the new detectives.

"Sorry I'm late, Captain . . ." she began. Every jaw in the room dropped, particularly Cain's.

"You are not giving a very good first impression, detective," Cain said to her disapprovingly.

The cat-calls began as one officer said "I beg to differ, Captain, she's giving a VERY GOOD impression."

McCall's dark eyes glittered with defiance.

"Captain, I was undercover on the King Hayes case. There was a small problem . . ." she began before Cain interrupted her.

"Where is your partner?" Cain asked, obviously not as amused as the rest of the room. Her stomach churned with anger as she heard the whispers. Just what she needed -- a room full of arrogant, chauvenistic men.

"Alan?"

"Yes, Detective Alan Ritter? Where is he?"

McCall bit her bottom lip as her eyes darted around. How to explain this without souding like a moron? "They just took Alan to County General," she said meekly. Her voice raised a pitch or two and her hands began to move wildly through the air as she tried to explain. "I was undercover and Ritter got nervous because it was taking longer than I anticipated and he came in hell bent for leather, Captain. I told him to wait and he didn't listen . . ." she tried to explain.

Cain's eyes narrowed. "McCall, Ritter is the superior officer. He should be ordering you, not the other way around. Is Ritter okay?"

"Yeah, he's gonna be fine," McCall said quietly, albeit through clenched teeth. She made a mental note to call his wife, as promised. But she was also furious. It was one thing to be dressed down for an incident such as this, but it was another to have it happen in front of 30 other police officers.

"Sit down. We'll continue this conversation later," Cain said.

McCall sat in the front at the first available chair. She could feel most of the men were staring at her with lecherous eyes instead of listening to Cain ramble on and on. Yeah, this was just what she needed.

****************

McCall clasped her hands behind her back, holding them tightly as if handcuffed, in an effort not to pop Cain in the jaw. What a bastard. She managed to save Alan's ass, but she was getting the shit. It was pointless to argue. She absolutely hated Cain. She tried valiantly to find the good in all people, even the most hardened criminals. But Cain was at the top of her asshole list.

Finally, when Cain was finished, she couldn't contain her fury. Screw him. She wasn't going to let him railroad her. She had been pushed to the limit.

"If it wasn't for me, Alan would be dead! I saved his pompous ass and managed to do it without breaking my cover. Go ahead and put that in my file, SIR!" she yelled as she slammed the door.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered under her breath. And she stalked out of the precinct before anyone could stop her.


****************

Perhaps she needed therapy, McCall thought to herself. She had discovered recently that she had a thing for leopard print. Yep, this would definitely catch some attention. Screw briefing. Her snitch told her where King Hayes would be that morning, and dammit, she was gonna get him.

With or without her partner. She was yet again partnerless, and frankly, she liked it that way. She couldn't count on anyone to back her up, except herself.

She strutted down 5th and Los Angeles among the other hookers, winos and street urchins, her expert eyes scanning the area for signs of King Hayes. Gretchen was on the lookout as well.

Until she heard the blare of a horn behind her. Her dark eyes widened as she glimpsed a face she hadn't seen in six months. Since Steve died. The tall figure leaned over from behind the wheel, eyes hidden behind his shades.

"Wanna be my partner?"