Chapter Text
It was a rainy night, wind and water all colliding together to whip at the citizens of New York City. Small rivers were flowing down gutters and waves formed by car tires were crashing onto the sidewalks, splashing nice heels and sneakers alike. In spite of the nasty bit of weather, the streets of Harlem never slept and feet hit the concrete like a slightly more organized stampede. Tourists were stopping here and there as natives passed by with mild annoyance.
A woman in a red flower printed dress stopped on the corner, her heels holding her high and her shoulders back and proud. She caught an eye now and then, holding her bag in her hands, resting out in front of her. She looked like she had nowhere to be and was someone important all at once, with her large eyes analytical of the city lights and her red-lipped mouth passive, the corners slightly up.
She hailed a cab, one of her hands moving from its relaxed position to wave in the air. A cab sent up a small wave of gutter-tainted rain water, narrowly avoiding the woman’s black patent heels. She stepped into the cab, placing her bag gently on her lap and blinking her big brown eyes at the reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Where to?” The man said, his voice raspy and his eyes searching hers in the mirror.
“Broadway, please.”
The driver simply nodded and pulled onto the road. The woman in the flower dress looked out the smudged car window, looking at the blur of faces the car passed. She had somewhere to be and someone important to meet. Hopefully he liked her dress…
“You missed the turn,” she said when the cab driver continued straight, flying past the green sign indicating the correct direction on his map.
“This way is faster.”
The large eyes narrowed, the perfectly manicured brows creasing together. The red lips pursed but said nothing. Her business had taught her not to question too much, and it had just sort of become a habit. It did not, however, keep her from thinking.
The cab pulled off onto another road, one more narrow than the main ones they had been driving on. There were bins lining the sides and the sounds of the city became quieter and hollow as the car continued forward.
“We seem to have made a wrong turn,” the man said, looking back into the rearview mirror. “I’m so sorry, Raina.”
The woman in the flower dress went rigid at the voice, no longer gruff but now quite familiar. The eyes in the driver’s seat bored into hers, black like coals. Tearing her eyes from the ones she saw in the rear-view mirror, she lunged for the door, only to have them lock with a click. She fumbled with the handle, kicked at the door, at the back of the seat. But there was no use and the woman could do nothing but blink at the familiar pair of eyes before it was all over and the world went black.
The morning sky was grey, shaking off the rain left by the night before. The city reflected the sky and itself over and over again in mirror-like windows until the streets were all the same cool grey, steel, and splashes of people and street lights. The gutters still rushed like rivers and cars made waves with their tires, but the daily ways of the street were broken by the flashing of blue and red lights and the collection of bystanders sitting about to watch. They all held their jackets tightly around themselves in the chill morning air, craning their necks for a better view of the crime scene.
Times Square was already a natural hubb for people, but a body lying upon one of the steel bleachers along with the presence of homicide cops and investigators couldn’t help but add to the number of people gathered there. With the natural noise of the city, the leftover rainwater, and now a murder, it was on its way to being ordered chaos.
“Welcome welcome,” Homicide Detective Lance Hunter said, raising his hands up from his sides as a duo in blue rain jackets bent under the police tape, the yellow letters CSI on their back shining against the navy.
“What have we got, Hunter?” the taller of the two CSI detectives, Bobbi Morse, asked, dropping her case onto the wet pavement with a flick of her blonde ponytail.
“Well, pick that case back up, Bob, and I’ll show you.”
Bobbi grumbled as she reached back down for her case, but followed Hunter without further complaint. The detective beckoned the two crime scene investigators forward, pushing a few fellow homicide cops out of the way before presenting them with the body. The ill-fated woman was soaking wet, her flower-patterned dress clinging to her small frame in darkened crimson folds. The curls on her head were matted to her forehead and her makeup was running. However, despite the body having been left to the elements, she had been neatly positioned like sleeping beauty on one of the rain covered benches. Almost peaceful.
“Thirty-two-old female, apparent strangulation. Looks like someone dumped the body here. She’s got no purse, no wallet, and, strangely, no shoes. She also doesn’t have any dirt on her feet which means she didn’t wander over here without them.”
“So someone carried her here then,” Bobbi said, squatting down next to the body as her fellow CSI detective whipped out his camera, putting it up to his bright blue eye.
Hunter crossed his arms. “That, or she flew.”
From her squat, Bobbi fixed him with a glare and he raised his hands in a defensive motion.
“I agree that it’s more likely she was carried, but I’ve learned to never rule things out in our line of work.”
She didn’t even bother to roll her eyes at him anymore. All she had to do was turn away and he could fill in the silence for himself. Besides, more often than not the gesture just made him smirk.
Getting close to the victim, Bobbi hovered just slightly above the body as she peered closely at each detail. “Positioning of her body looks methodical, her hands on her stomach like that. Her nails are in perfect condition and it doesn’t look like there was any attempt to fight off her attacker. Odd…”
Bobbi sat back on her heels for a moment, her eyes unfocusing slightly as she delved further into her thoughts. A camera flash broke her out of her contemplations and she shook her head.
“Alright, Bob?” Hunter said.
“Yeah,” Bobbi replied, “It’s just… it’s just that the markings on her neck definitely indicate strangulation. And yet there are no signs that indicate she fought back. Someone wraps a cord around your neck, you fight to get it off, but there is no obvious evidence she even knew what was happening to her.”
Hunter nodded, readjusting the crossing of his leather-jacketed arms. “What does the obvious evidence say then?”
“Well, the upward u-shape of the markings on her neck says it came from above, meaning the perp was probably taller than her.” Bobbi pointed with a gloved pinky at the crimson red marks on the woman’s neck.
“Doesn’t look like it’d be hard to be taller than her,” Hunter replied, crossing his arms, “she’s even shorter than Fitz.”
The detective taking photos paused after another flash from the camera, glaring over the lense with burning blue eyes, one eyebrow cocked. “I’ll remind you that you are only two inches taller than me,” he said, narrowing his eyes before crouching down next to Bobbi for some more photos.
“Has the rest of the crime scene been looked at?” Bobbi asked, looking over her shoulder and up at Hunter.
The homicide detective nodded. Uncrossing his arms, he gestured over to the yellow markers around the plaza. “Coulson got here about fifteen minutes ago and set the rest of the team to work, mentioned that you two would be lagging behind. Care to share why?”
Bobbi looked like she was fighting off a grin. “Ask Fitz over there.”
“It was not my fault Daisy moved my case!”
Hunter joined Bobbi in fighting off a smile, hiding his face by turning to look at the yellow markers littered around the scene. “The rain sort of fucked with most of the evidence, unfortunately. I’m not sure how much usable evidence you guys are going to get.”
“As much as I know you want to get home early, Hunter, procedures are procedures,” Bobbi said, a mischievous glimmer coming to her eye.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Mmhmm.”
“What I meant is that your lots jobs are going to be a whole lot harder what with your crime scene washing down the gutters.”
“Oh, so you’re sympathizing? That’s a new look.”
“Why no shoes?” Fitz suddenly said, cutting off whatever quip Hunter had on his tongue.
Bobbi tilted her head and drew her brows together. Hunter merely shrugged.
“Dunno,” he said, “Maybe the killer fancied a pair of new shoes.”
“But, if the killer really is as tall as we think they are, surely they wouldn’t fit. They must be a good four sizes--”
“Joking, Fitz.”
“Yeah, I know,” Fitz grumbled, blushing and looking back through his camera lense. “Still curious about the shoes, though.”
From where she was squatting, Bobbi looked around the crime scene. More people had gathered, pushing against the bright yellow barrier and standing on tiptoes. There was far too little evidence markers about.
“There’s not enough evidence here,” she said.
She turned to look at Fitz. No doubt sensing her gaze on him, he looked back up at her. He retraced the steps her eyes had taken, lingering on each marker. Bobbi could almost see the cogs in his brain turning under his curls--extra springy from the rain.
“Supports that this was just where they placed the body,” he said.
“That and it would be a bit obvious if someone was strangled in the heart of Time’s Square,” Hunter said.
Fitz craned his head up and to the right, nodding at the detective. “True. There is also that.”
Ignoring the two men, Bobbi, with a gloved hand, gently moved the woman’s dark curly hair out of the way to get a better look at the marking on her neck. It was a thin gash running in a semicircle from one ear to the other, clean edges and free of any fibers as far as she could see. The u-shaped mark was red with dried blood, the rain having revived a bit of its color. With her face so close, Bobbi could almost smell the copper, the metallic aroma strong enough to run down her throat.
“Looks like a wire or a cord of some kind was used,” Bobbi said, backing away from the woman’s neck and sitting back on her haunches, “but Radcliffe will probably get a better sense of what exactly was used when he examines her.”
Fitz swallowed as he looked at the wound. Despite it being his job, he was still not in love with seeing the bodies themselves. He tended to be more on the investigative, science side of cases. Coughing once and his nose twitching, he looked towards Bobbi.
“Maybe he could also provide an answer to your question about the victim not fighting off her attacker. She could have been drugged or knocked unconscious.”
“Would explain why she didn’t fight back. We’ll see what he finds.” Bobbi placed her hand on her fellow CSI’s shoulder, using it as leverage to stand up.
They continued to collect evidence and take pictures before the team from the medical examiner's office finally removed the body from where it lay on the steel bleachers. With the body taken away from the scene and the space thoroughly documented, Fitz exchanged his camera for sample tubes and aided Bobbi in picking up the last few details of the scene. Meanwhile, Hunter buzzed around the scene taking final witness reports from people who had first found the body as well as anyone else who might have seen something suspicious.
Bobbi snapped her case shut while Fitz— who had followed suit and shut his own case—once again crouched down by the benches.
“Fitz? You good?” Bobbi said, coming to stand next to him.
Slight wrinkles formed on Fitz’s forehead. “You know the cliché of a dead person looking like they’re asleep?”
“Yes?”
“Some of the cases we’ve worked on, I forget why people say things like that. The way people… the way they go, it’s hard to ever think they were anything but dead.”
Bobbi nodded and stared at the now empty bit of steel. She knew where Fitz was going with what he was saying. The woman in the flower dress had looked almost lovely the way she had been laying. Calm and at rest. If it hadn’t been for the marking on her neck and the lack of a beating heart, she could truly have been simply resting. It was unsettling and something about it made Bobbi think that the poor woman’s end had been anything but peaceful.
When they arrived back at the crime lab, Fitz was still pondering over the victims shoes. He had his arms crossed and his back up against the wall of the elevator, and Bobbi could once again almost hear the gears in his head whirring away, even over his verbal stream of consciousness.
“Fitz,” Bobbi said, cutting off his fiftieth theory--something involving a secret message written on the sole--, “you gotta stop with the shoes.”
“It’s just odd,” he said, “why take her shoes?”
“I don’t know, but to figure it out we need to piece the rest of this together.”
He pushed himself off the wall as the elevator came to a halt at the thirtieth floor: the crime lab.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said.
“I tend to be.”
Fitz scoffed, picking up his case from the floor. “Not always.”
“More than you,” she teased, striding out of the elevator with Fitz on her heels.
“That’s so not--”
Whatever Fitz was going to say was cut off as Daisy jumped up and slammed on one of the glass walls of the AV Lab. Fitz yelped loudly, his case falling to his feet with a clunk, as Daisy doubled over, disappearing behind a desk and out from view.
“Why is the crime lab made of windows!” Fitz yelled, flipping Daisy off as she reappeared, rounding into the hallway and holding a stitch in her side.
“To fuck with you,” Bobbi replied, patting Fitz on the back before turning to Daisy. “Fitz has got pictures of the scene and we’ll get trace samples to you once we collect them off the victim's clothing. And Coulson wants you on scene reconstruction.”
“But, wasn’t it raining?” Daisy asked, her voice sobering up as she wiped away a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye.
“Yep,” Bobbi said.
Fitz smacked Daisy’s back. “Should be fun for you.”
Daisy scrunched her face. “Should be fun for you, nu nu na nu nu. Jerkwad.”
“Arsehole,” Fitz responded.
“Dick.”
“Are you two done? You actual children,” Bobbi cut in, her brows rising up her face.
Daisy shoved Fitz one more time and then nodded. “Now I’m done.”
As Daisy retreated, Bobbi pulled down Fitz’s rising middle finger, tugging him along in the direction of the lab.
“Children,” Bobbi repeated. “Actual children.”
“She started it.”
“Oh, yeah? Helping your case Fitz.”
She caught the ghost of a smirk in Fitz’s pout and it made her laugh as they rounded into the layout room. The room was empty of evidence yet, the boxes still on their way from the crime scene. As the collection of evidence started to arrive from the scene, Fitz and Bobbi donned their lab coats and gloves and started getting to work.
“There’s far less boxes than normal,” Fitz said, grabbing one from off the rolling cart a lab tech had brought in. He placed it carefully upon one of the light tables and started pulling out individual bags of evidence.
Bobbi nodded, picking up a box of her own. “Yep, we can thank the rain for that.”
“Bloody rain.”
“And we don’t have the murder weapon--”
“Or the victims shoes.”
“Yep,” Bobbi agreed, with a laugh, “Can’t forget that.”
Fitz pulled out a bag containing a cigarette bud found by the body from a box. “Well, hopefully when Radcliffe is finished up with the autopsy he’ll have more for us.”
“Hopefully.”
They began by unpacking the evidence, pulling out swab samples taken at the scene, trace hairs, and out of place materials. Having worked together in the lab for two years, Bobbi and Fitz had developed an almost choreographed dance in the lab. They moved about each other without crashing and handed things off without looking. Fitz was picky about how things were labeled, and while at first it had been grating, Bobbi had long ago learned the code. Now, she even found herself reminding lab techs of the many systems they had in place.
Bobbi herself was more relaxed in the lab and she had a way of making the time run faster. She was efficient and fun to be around if she did say so herself, and had developed her own system of dividing and conquering. Where Fitz could fixate, Bobbi could see the larger picture. Together they made quite the team.
“So,” Fitz said, pulling apart the packaging for a sample swab, “how’re things with Hunter?”
Bobbi rolled her eyes before moving them closer to the microscope. “Fitz, there are no things with Hunter.”
“Mmhmm. Sure.”
“We are friends,” Bobbi said, drawing out the words. She focused the microscope on the slide. She was examining a strand of hair found on the victim, lining it up with a sample taken from the victim.
Even with her eyes in the microscope, she could tell Fitz had moved to stand next to her. She felt his lab coat brush hers as he leaned over his own microscope.
“It’s just that the looks the two of you pass are a little more than friendly,” he said. There was a teasing element to his tone and Bobbi held back another eyeroll.
“And when did you start getting good at reading people?” Bobbi asked. She almost had the slides in the proper position.
“I am a detective. A crime scene investigator. Employed by the law.”
Bobbi leaned back from her microscope, her head tilted forward and her eyebrows up skeptically.
“What?” he said, pushing himself away from the table.
Bobbi shrugged her shoulders and turned back to her samples. “I was just wondering when your last interrogation was,” she said.
“Well,” Fitz stuttered, undoubtedly crossing his arms, “never. So, it wasn’t what I was hired for. But, I’m a fast learner.”
“I know you are, but you're an even better scientist. Get back to your samples, Fitzy.”
She heard Fitz scoff and his arms drop to his sides.
“I’m not dropping this conversation, just so you know,” he said, coming back to his own microscope.
“No, of course not.”
“Simply putting a pin in it.”
“Okay.”
“Because I do think I’m at least good at reading you and Hunter. Well, Hunter more so than you. Hunter’s not very good at keeping his emotions in, especially with a pint in him. I mean just last Saturday he was going on about--”
Before Bobbi could cut him off, a knock on the far glass wall of the lab did it for her. Her ponytail whipping her face as she turned towards the noise, Bobbi saw it was a smiling Daisy holding a bag of clothing. Bobbi could make out the floral pattern of the victim’s dress through the clear plastic.
“Sup lab rats,” Daisy called through the open door.
“What have you got for us, Dais?” Fitz said.
Daisy held the bag of clothing up higher. “Radcliffe’s still working on the autopsy. Apparently there’s something funky about it he’s still working on. Anyhoo, his assistant sent up the victim’s clothes for processing.
“Fantastic.” Fitz walked forward and took the offered bag, giving Daisy a light slap on the back of her shoulder. She tossed him a genuine smile and lightly hit the back of his head before ruffling his curls.
“Did he give any indication of when he’d be done?” Bobbi asked.
“Has he ever? Science is--”
“An art,” Bobbi and Fitz said together, their voices hovering between monotone and exasperated.
“And art can’t be rushed,” Daisy said, finishing up the maxim with a swing of her pointer finger.
“Thank you, Daisy,” Bobbi said.
The young CSI saluted with a flourish and walked out of the room, her dark hair flying behind her as she turned the corner.
“Do you want clothing or crime scene,” Bobbi asked as Fitz placed the evidence bag on the light table with the rest of their collection.
“I’ve finished taking what I can from the cigarette bud, might as well start on the clothing while the systems run.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Fitz put on a fresh pair of gloves as he got to work, opening up the bag and laying the dress out across the table. Before he could ask, Bobbi tossed him an unopened collection of swabs. He caught them with a grin and opened one, his face hovering above the fabric.
“It’s still damp,” he said with a huff, leaning his elbows on the edge of the table. His eyes slid over the fabric and Bobbi watched a familiar collection of creases line his forehead.
She turned back to her hair sample and leaned back into the microscope.
“Bollocks to the rain,” she heard him say.
Bobbi straightened up with a huff, turning her head over her shoulder. “Fitz,” she said, her voice pinched, “you know I love ya, but if you say one more thing about the rain I’m going to kick you.”
“Sorry,” he said. And in the scrunching of his brow she knew he meant it.
“You’re better than a bit of rain, Fitz.”
“Yeah. I am.”
Bobbi laughed in a huff from her nose and turned back to her microscope, feeling like she would get a crick in her neck from all the quick turns away. She turned the dial on the microscope carefully, squinting into the lenses as a reflex. The two strands of hair failed to line up, the texture and characteristics far from matching.
“Crap,” Bobbi whispered, pushing away from the microscope.
Fitz’s head shot up, his eyes asking a silent question.
“The hair doesn’t match the victim,” she answered.
“But, that’s good, right? Means it could be a lead rather than a dead end.”
“Yeah,” Bobbi admitted, “but it also means I now have to go through the known sample catalogue and you know how much I hate--”
“Dealing with Edna. Yeah, I know.” Fitz capped a swab and shook his head, the corners of his lips turning downwards. “I still don’t know why you dislike her so much.”
“Because she’s a pain to work with.”
“She is not,” he objected, his back straightening, “You’re just bad with her.”
Bobbi rolled her eyes as she began to properly put away the hair sample to work on later. “I am not bad with her. I do everything correctly, press all the right buttons, and she still takes her damn sweet time figuring out what I wanted to grab.”
“She is a state of the art storing and retrieving system that the lab paid good money for and you act like Coulson trying to use a touch screen.”
“Okay, but in all fairness to our Chief Detective, he has gotten better at using touch screens.”
Fitz narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, a face that screamed has he?
Bobbi crossed her arms. “I still hate Edna.”
His shoulders hunched as he opened another swab. “Well,” he started, “if you want, I can grab the comparative samples from Edna and you can tell me what’s going on between you and Hunter.”
Bobbi grinned. “Deal.”
Fitz quickly swiped the swab over a dark substance on the victim’s dress, capped the swab properly, and labeled its container before rushing to Edna’s home two labs over. Looking over the microscopes closest to the wall, Bobbi watched as he jogged down the bright hallway and nearly burst out laughing as he slowed down at the sight of Coulson. At the little stiff nod he gave and the awkward thumbs up, Bobbi broke completely.
“Why is Fitz running,” Coulson asked, popping his head into the lab.
“He’s excited to prove his love to Edna,” she said, sobering up enough to be audible.
Coulson leaned out the doorway, craned his neck, and then returned it back into the room. “Ah. I hate Enda.”
“Me too, sir.”
“That claw arm nearly whacked me in the face. Haven’t dealt with her since.”
“I know, sir.”
Coulson smiled and tapped the glass wall twice with his fingers. “Well, back to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Bobbi,” he said, tilting his head forward.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re doing the sir thing again.”
She gave him a closed mouth smile and relaxed the muscles in her back. “Habit.”
“I know.”
Coulson looked at her in his characteristic way. Behind his glasses he had this look like he could read minds if he focused hard enough. But it was never judgemental, never interrogative or invasive. Instead, he just appeared concerned or curious as if he were just checking up. Bobbi knew how quickly that look could transform during an actual interrogation, having seen Coulson in action. She had watched as the kind eyes turned powerful and intimidating and as blazing as a red hot iron. But now, as he looked at her, they were a calming comforting blue.
“Well,” he said, snapping the tension in the way only he could, “I’ve got a stack of paperwork on my desk to get to. Enjoy your sample collecting and such. Oh, and when Fitz gets back, tell him I’m happy for him and Edna.”
“Will do, s--boss. Enjoy your paperwork.”
Alone in the lab for a moment, Bobbi took the time to soak up the silence. She got to work on analyzing one of the samples Fitz had taken from off the dress. She uncapped the swab, snipped the end off, and soaked it in the proper solutions. There was a peacefulness in the routine, but without anyone else in the lab her mind was allowed to wander.
When she had first come to work on the lab side of things, it had taken a lot of getting used to to not call Coulson sir. Her previous superior had been addressed that way, that or Captain Gonzales, and sometimes she forgot that she no longer worked under him. After the shooting, after Izzy, it had been Gonzales that had suggested the transfer to the lab.
“It’ll be good,” Hunter had said. “You’ll have a minute to breathe in the lab. And Coulson’s a good man. Plus, you’ll get to use your biology degree.”
Still, no matter the comfort she had been given or the reasons why she had been transferred, Bobbi had to admit she missed being out there in the city. She loved the lab and adored her coworkers, but six months turned to a year and somehow a year became two and now it felt like the lab was all there was. And she had accepted what had happened. Hadn’t she?
Fitz returned ten minutes later, retrieving the samples much faster than Bobbi would have done. He was nearly skipping as he entered, placing the slides before her with a flourish.
“Alright,” he said, “what’s going on between you and Hunter?”
She picked up the comparison samples and moved them neatly over onto her workstation.
“Bobbi.”
She picked up one of the tablets without any real reason, enjoying the way Fitz’s brows began to knit together. She didn’t have any siblings, but she figured this is what it felt like to tease a little brother.
“Bob!”
She grinned. “Nothing is going on between me and Hunter.”
Frustration flashed not so subtly on Fitz’s features. “You said--”
“That I would tell you what was going on. I was being honest. Nothing is going on between me and Hunter.”
Fitz’s mouth hung open and his pointer finger shot out in front of him. Whatever he was going to argue died in his throat and he shut his mouth tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The laughter that Bobbi was about to let slip was interrupted by the beeping of the tablet in her hand. A direct message sent from the morgue popped up in the corner of the screen.
“What is it?” Fitz asked, his arms still folded in a petulant manner.
“Radcliffe is ready for us.”
A wrinkle formed on Fitz’s nose. “I hate the morgue,” he said.
“And I hate Edna. Every job has its downsides.”
Bobbi began packing up the evidence according to procedure, Fitz following her lead. Once they were done, she clapped a comforting hand on Fitz’s shoulder.
“Shall we go to the morgue?”
He grimaced but nodded, extending his hand to the open door way. “After you.”