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He half expected this. The silent treatment after their date night got interrupted. Not just any date night, but the anniversary of when they'd started dating. (They tended not to celebrate the fact that he'd gotten shot. Just when they'd finally gotten together a month and change later.) Still. It wasn't like her not to respond.
Worry starting to buzz in the back of his mind he heads to her place. He'll just swing by and apologize again for the interruption to their night... almost a full 24 hours ago, now. They've always had an understanding between them regarding their respective jobs, and the hours they demanded, the attention they demanded. This relationship can't be falling back into the same old patterns of all the ones before. Not with her.
Hell, she'd sent coffee to the station to make sure they had something decent to keep them fueled through the night! This is just... just a dead battery. Except that it isn't sending him straight to voicemail.
But when he pulls into the lot of her complex her car isn't there. He circles once, twice, just to make sure. It isn't just that someone temporarily parked in her slot, forcing her to park elsewhere. Her car isn't here.
Meaning she isn't here.
Had she, too, been called in? Racking his brain, he can't remember her mentioning any potential changes to her rotation. He's tired after working through the evening and then his normal shift, but not that tired. She had the day off today. She should be here. Not that she owed him details about her whereabouts at all hours but they usually kept each other notified, all the same.
Worry starting to fester into something harder, he dials her number again, looping the lot one last time. Perhaps, somehow, this tired detective just happened to miss the relocation of her vehicle.
Still no answer.
Still no silver car.
One concerned voicemail later he starts for home. He's about to call her again as he turns down his side street, intending on leaving a deliberately detailed voicemail about getting off shift and going home to sleep for the next umpteen hours when he spies a familiar silver car parked in his visitor's space.
Ok. So she's here. Which makes no sense no matter how you frame it. Her place was closer to the station, where they'd parted. Obviously there hadn't been any way of telling when he'd be home again. But she's here. Here, but not answering his calls.
Which means she's mad. Or something's wrong.
After he parks he circles her car, looking for anything amiss, the simple fact that he's doing so absolutely killing him. If something had happened to her... why did his brain always link up with the worst possible outcome? Because of what he did all day. That's why.
Half ready to pounce on anything that so much as twitches he makes his way to his front door - and is greeted by silence. So her car is here but she isn't? She's been here. It smells of her, or maybe that's just in his head. What's not in his head is that there's a bottle of water and something to eat set out for him on the kitchen table that had not been there before they left for their date. Her gentle reminder that he needs to remember to take care of himself, long shifts be damned, only makes the situation worse.
Where is she?!
Jabbing at the screen of his phone again he auto-redials her number, his heart lurching when a dim light illuminates his darkened bedroom. Her phone is sitting on the nightstand where she always puts it. He'd called out when he came in the door, didn't he? Maybe not. Though he certainly hadn't been quiet about his arrival. Surely, if she was here, she'd be up and investigating.
But then he makes out her form among the bed sheets, sleeping as haphazardly - or as hazardously to one's bed partner - as she always does. Emitting a light laugh of relief he is at the bed in an instant, bending to kiss her awake.
Only then does she stir, reaching beyond him to touch the bedside lamp and illuminate the room once more.
