Title: Not a Whole Lotta People

Rating: PG/Teen

Summary: He'd be dead, if his partner were anyone else.

Beta: Unbeta'd, oop.

Warnings: Violence, though not anything beyond what we see in the show. (I don't think.)

Notes: Heyyyy, Cold Case fandom! Long time no see. This is totally self-indulgent and you shouldn't come into it expecting anything genius. It was born from a longing for some Scotty & Lilly partners!dynamic and some hurt/comfort craving. It's a bit of Scotty whump because that's how I roll these days, apparently. You can probably read Scotty/Lilly into this if you squint, but it's gen for the most part.

This was originally started for the girlsavesboy fic fest on livejournal, but I abandoned it after a couple of hundred words. I dug it up again a couple days ago, finished it in a rush, and posted it here.

It's not set at any particular time, but it does take place after 4.24 Stalker.

Please forgive any typos, as this was typed hurriedly, and is not beta'd. It just feels good to dip my toes back into this fandom again!

Scotty comes to and immediately wishes he hadn't.

His shoulders are on fire; he can practically hear his joints screaming in protest. He tries to move, and the soles of his shoes scrape and swing against the floor. His handcuffs are cutting into his wrists; he can feel blood running warm down his forearms, soaking the sleeves of his shirt.

He has no idea how long he's been here. There's a dead ache in his head, pulsing in time with his heart, and his eyes won't focus properly, though maybe it's just the dark playing tricks on him. He can feel the tightness of tape over his mouth and dried blood on his cheek. His hands are numb and it all fucking hurts, and he's got no idea if there are people looking for him or if he's all on his own.

Knowing the luck they've had on this case so far, it's probably the latter.

Buried deep in his head, instinct and training is trying to fight its way out of the fog. He stretches down with his toes and tries to ease the pressure off his wrists, but he's swinging just too high; can't lift himself off the hook he's swinging from; can't relieve the sharp dig of metal into his skin.

The room is dark, coloured grey like ocean water before a storm – there's a murkiness to it Scotty can't clear or fight away, no matter how many times he blinks his eyes or tries to drive the ache from his head.

"I never did this to a man, before."

Scotty's more startled by the sudden loud rush of breath through his nose than the voice that comes to him through the dark. He jerks and swings around on his cuffs and blood runs down his arms. He gets an image of the water-bloated body pulled from the Schuylkill four weeks ago, her wounds all leached by the river water, skin still torn and bruised. Scotty clenches his fists at the thought, knowing exactly now what she went through before her throat was opened up and she bled out over the floor of that warehouse. She and the two other girls just like her, all unfortunate enough to wash up in the mud over the past seven years.

A figure shuffles in from Scotty's right, face still mostly in shadow. "I never did this to a man," he says again.

Scotty narrows his eyes, trying to fight the dark smoke crawling in at the edges of his vision. Passing out would be a relief from the pain, but it'd only serve to screw him further, at this point.

Ernest Wells.

Their lead suspect showing himself is only small relief. Being right is no good to him if Wells is only going to slit his throat. Scotty figures Rush will wear Wells down eventually; there has to be evidence somewhere that will stand up beyond the circumstantial.

But Rush ain't here.

"You changed everything," Wells says, watching Scotty with unblinking eyes. "You and that blonde. Took Lindsay. Took Andi, and Janet. Wasn't supposed to move them. Wasn't supposed to find them."

Scotty can't can't tell if it's sweat or blood on his arms now, but his eyes are stinging and his shirt is sticking to him. He watches as Wells circles him slowly, his shoes crunching the grit on the concrete floor. Scotty stretches his toes down to the ground again, but there's no relief in it; he just swings in place.

"Didn't figure you found Millie, or Heather," Wells continues softly. "Heard nothin' of you finding them. I weighted 'em down good, I guess."

Scotty's stomach flips and roils. He tries to stretch his jaw open to yell or shout into the dark, but the tape is tight and pinching on his skin.

"It's not fair," Wells says suddenly, stopping somewhere behind Scotty. "They were all dirty; had dirty blood. All of 'em. Didn't act like they should. Needed a lesson." He creeps in from the side, eyes narrowed.

Scotty huffs a nervous breath through his nose, fingers curling into fists, his blood sparking and burning in his joints.

"I got no hate for you, Detective," Wells says softly. He looks down and runs his fingers over Scotty's badge, which he's turning over in his hands, his thumb caressing the leather wallet carefully. "But I can't let you go, neither." He shakes his head and slips Scotty's badge into his pocket. "We're each just trying to do a job, Detective," he whispers. "Just trying to make things right."

Scotty would argue that, if he could. There's nothing right about what Wells does.

"It's cleansing," Wells says. He's mumbling into his chest, not really talking to anyone but himself. "When I am done with them, they're clean again. They're saved."

Scotty swallows and clenches his fists again, pulling against the cuffs. He stops quickly, his breath sharp in his nostrils as pain wakes in every nerve.

"This is different," Wells whispers, rubbing his hands together nervously. "I am not saving you from anything, Detective. I believe you are a good man, and I believe you think you are doing the right thing. But those girls were on the path to ruination. Those girls were immoral. I had to..." He trails off and edges away into the dark.

Desperate, Scotty grits his teeth and gives one hard jerk against the handcuffs. The result is nothing but pain. He groans through the tape and feels sweat run down his temples and down his back.

Frantically, he tries to remember how he got here. He was with Rush, he was pretty sure. In the car, on the way somewhere. The warehouse, maybe, though he doesn't think that's where he is now. And he can't remember what happened to separate him from his partner, or if something happened to her first, but he knows she ain't here now.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Wells asks, and Scotty jumps at the close sound of his voice behind him. "Funny what someone'll do to save himself."

His fist seizes the collar of Scotty's shirt, and there's a tearing sound, the material tugging and pulling as Wells forces a knife through the stiff material.

Scotty kicks backwards but misses, and he swings back and forth from his wrists, panting heavily.

"I never did this to a man," Wells says, "but I've done it enough times to know, Detective. You can't get down from there, and you may as well go on and make peace with that. Won't be long."

Scotty's heart lurches in his chest and he coughs and tugs at the handcuffs again, too frantic to care about the pain. Somewhere in the grey light of the rafters, pigeons flutter nervously.

It takes Wells several long minutes to work through the tough shirt cuffs, the knife fraying back and forth through the material. Scotty manages to land a few kicks against Wells' knees, but all he does is dodge away for a moment or so before he comes back. Scotty tires quickly, and soon his shirt and his undershirt are in a bloody heap on the floor.

The pigeons rustle in the rafters again, and Wells pauses for a long moment, looking in the direction of the noise.

Scotty ain't gonna plead. Even if he could – even if he could talk – he wouldn't plead, or beg. Wouldn't do any good, and he's not going to give Wells the satisfaction of believing he's denied Scotty a choice.

Wells seems upset. He's pacing back and forth in front of Scotty, looking down at his badge again. "I sure am sorry about this, Detective," he says softly. "I guess I can say it's your own fault, though. You just got too close. And I guess I panicked and when you came by, all I could do was think about how to stop you. And here we are."

He shakes his head and sighs, tucking Scotty's badge away again. "I'm not real happy about it," he says. "I don't want you to think I like doing this, Detective. I just want you to know I have to do it. Those girls were no good. Those girls were dirty. I did a service by cleansing them like I did. And I'll do you just the same. And I'll weigh you down good, like I did with Millie and Heather."

He tilts the knife in his fingers and it shines in the dull light. "If I can offer you some consolation in your final moments, Detective," he says quietly, "this part don't last long."

Scotty's breath seizes in his lungs. Fuck, this is it, he thinks. This is how it's gonna end for Scotty Valens.

"Freeze!" Lilly's voice bounces off the walls, and the pigeons flutter in the rafters again. "Police!" she shouts. "Step away! Step away!"

With a sudden surge of energy, with something he didn't even know he had in his reserves, Scotty lets all his weight bear from the handcuffs, and he lifts his feet and pushes them solidly against Wells' chest.

The other man staggers and trips over his feet, and then Scotty sees Rush out of the corner of his eye, emerging from the gloom with her gun steady in her hands.

"Drop your weapon!" she shouts, and her voice echoes off of everything. "Drop your weapon, now!"

Wells scrambles to his feet and launches himself desperately, the knife gripped in his fist, panic bright in his eyes.

The flash of gunfire stays trapped behind Scotty's eyes for a moment, his head thudding with an ache timed to the beat of his heart and the firing of Lilly's gun. It takes him a long time for him to realise Wells is slumped in a pool of his own blood on the floor, one arm still outstretched, the knife pointing to Lilly's feet. She kicks it free of his loose fingers and kneels cautiously, two fingers searching for a pulse in his neck.

She huffs a sigh and holsters her gun again as she approaches Scotty. "You okay?" she asks breathlessly. She reaches up to pull the tape away from his mouth.

"You took your fucking time," he gasps.

She gives him a watery sort of a grin and, with a strength Scotty didn't know she had, braces her hands against his arms to lift him off hook he's been swinging from. They both fall to the floor, and Scotty's shoulders are on fire as his blood rushes back into nerves and aching muscles that have gone numb.

He whimpers and grits his teeth, curling himself into a ball on the cold floor, his skin tacky with blood and chilled with sweat.

"Hey," Lilly whispers, and her hand is warm on his shoulder, "Scotty..."

"Yeah," he says, but he's quivering and he feels sick. He retches once but nothing comes up, and his blood is burning, his nerves are like live wires all crossing with one another.

Lilly says nothing for a while, just sits with him, her fingers stirring gently through his hair. "What happened?" she asks.

"You tell me," Scotty mumbles. His head is pounding. He can't even feel his arms anymore. "Last thing I remember is drivin' with you somewhere..."

Lilly gives a short laugh and peers down at him critically. "He hit your head pretty hard, huh?"

"Shut up." He closes his eyes and frowns when she prods at the tender spot at the back of his head. "How'd we get separated?" he asks.

"I was checking out the street behind his house," she says simply. "He must've come home and seen you waiting out front for me. I was only gone five minutes. Came back and you were nowhere to be seen. I saw his car turning the corner. When I couldn't find you, figured something had gone wrong. Tried to follow in our car, but I fell behind. I had to guess, mostly, as to where he was going."

"Well, good guessin', Rush." He blinks up at her, his vision bleary. "You cut it pretty close, though."

She gives him a little grin and a shrug. "Had to stop and call for back up."

"You called for back up," Scotty murmurs. "There's a first."

"Hey, less sarcasm and more gratitude," she says. "Anyway," she adds after a moment, "I might've called for back up, but I didn't wait for them to arrive."

"That's my girl."

She laughs at him, and her hand pats his shoulder cautiously. "So, how bad are you hurt?"

"Can't move," he warns her. "Don't move. I'm..." He can't move. His muscles are all liquid, and his vision is swimming. He gives up entirely on trying to keep his eyes open. Just leans his head into Lilly's lap and keeps still, hating his pulse for throbbing so hard in his torn wrists.

He drifts in and out a bit. Wakes again when Stillman shows up, and there are lights and voices, and heavy black boots marching around the floor near him. Pain spikes when they cut the cuffs off his wrists and roll him onto a gurney, but he drifts off again, and the next time he wakes it's a different kind of muted light, and he's in the hospital.

Stillman is standing at the end of his bed, his hands in his pockets. "Hey, Scotty," he says. "How's your head?"

Scotty does a quick mental check of his injuries. "Ain't so bad now," he says, but his throat feels raw, like he's been screaming out loud for a long time.

Stillman nods. "Doc says you'll come through it fine. Might be some scarring on your wrists."

"I'll take the scarring," Scotty murmurs. "Better'n' what I thought I was gonna get."

Stillman gives him a small smile. "Get some rest," he says, as though Scotty hasn't been passed out for what has probably been hours. He pats his shoulder gently. "Consider that an order."

"Thanks, boss," Scotty whispers. But then, as Stillman's hand leaves his shoulder and sleep starts to fog the edges of his mind again, "Where's Lil?"

"Fighting with the reps from the review board, is my best bet," Stillman says. "They'll be wanting me back there, too. You know how it is." His voice is heavy.

"He was gonna kill me," Scotty says, with as much conviction as he can muster. "She warned him off. And even when I knocked him down, he got up again and went for her with the knife."

"Scotty, I don't expect this one to get any more complicated than it needs to be," Stillman assures him. "You and Lil were isolated; there was no time to negotiate anything easier. She'll be in here to visit you as soon as they're done. I'd bet my best scotch on it."

Scotty opens one eye. "You ain't gonna get me to disagree on that one."

Stillman grins and nods, pats Scotty's shoulder again, and then Scotty lets himself fall back in under.

He was hoping to find Lilly there when he awoke next, but instead its two officials there to question him on the actions Lilly took.

He tells them as best he can, trying not to sound too defensive about it all. "Another ten seconds and he would've cut my throat open," he says. He grits his teeth against the pain shooting hot down his shoulders again. "Even after I'd knocked him down, even after she'd warned him off, he tried to finish it."

They don't argue with him. They ask him to repeat a couple of things, and they ask a few more questions and jot notes down, and then they nod at him and tell him to get some rest.

The nurse comes in and asks how he's feeling, and he tells her it's like his own blood is trying to burn through his joints, and she nods and does something to the drip going into his arm, and then the fire is slowly dampened by the fog again, and his eyes close.

He wakes up again to find Lilly sprawled in the chair beside his bed, her hair a straw-mess, a cardboard cup of coffee clutched loosely in her hand. She's got dark rings under her eyes, and she looks to be dozing, ready to spring awake at any second.

He feels achy and stiff, but the fire seems gone. He lifts one hand slowly and examines the bandages wrapped around his wrist. He thinks how lucky he was to have Lil find him when she did – how lucky he is to have her there, stubborn and headstrong and whip-smart.

He'd be dead, if his partner were anyone else.

"Hey," Lilly croaks, rubbing her face and shuffling around in her chair with stiff movements. "How's your head?"

"Handsome and smart as it ever was," Scotty says. "How are things back at the office?"

Lilly pulls a face, and he chuckles.

"What'd the doctor say?" Lilly asks. She rattles the empty cup in her hand before she sets it aside.

"I'll be fine," he says. He holds his hand up again. "Gonna have some scars. Chicks dig scars, right?"

Lilly raises an eyebrow. "Sure, Valens. You'll have 'em falling at your feet the moment those bandages come off."

He laughs again. There's still an ache deep at the back of his head, and he doubts he could really move his shoulders at all, but he feels a lot happier for seeing her.

Lilly leans her elbows against the mattress by his hip, the starched sheets crackling under the weight as she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. "You okay?" she asks, not looking at him.

"Now I am," he says. "Things started lookin' up again soon as you got me off that hook."

She nods, her hands still pressed over her eyes. "Glad I turned left," she says after a moment. "Got to a junction and couldn't figure out where he might've gone. Had to guess which road would lead me to somewhere he could keep you."

Scotty's stomach tightens. "Yeah," he says, gritting his teeth. "He confessed, you know. And to two others girls. Millie and Helen – uh, Heather. Millie and Heather. They never washed up. Must still be at the bottom of the river."

He shudders noticeably, and Lilly drops one of her hands down to his, her fingers sliding gently over the rough bandage around his wrist before she cups her palm over the back of his hand.

"I don't understand why he broke his pattern," Lilly says.

"He didn't want to." Scotty shifts uncomfortably against the mattress, turning his hand a little so he can trap Lilly's fingers with his thumb. "He thought I was there to arrest him. Guess he thought the game was up. He panicked and figured he had to get rid of me. He wasn't happy about it, though. Kept going on and on about how sorry he was, and how he only did it to the girls because they needed cleansing..." He trails off and swallows bitterly, angry and upset that five girls died before everything ended.

"Hm." Lilly rubs her face again, looking bruised with exhaustion. She rests her chin on her hand and looks at him for a long moment.

"Thanks," Scotty says suddenly. "For, you know, being the hero."

She grins. "Figured I owed you one. After Romeo." Her gaze drops for a moment and Scotty squeezes her hand, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain in his muscles as they tense.

"Don't owe me anythin'," he says. "It's not a good thing we've both had to – to do that."

She nods again and looks down at his hand. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth for a moment. "You know, Scotty," she says, sounding hesitant, "I don't have many people..." She trails off, and he waits.

She glances at him quickly and then looks back at his bandaged wrist. "Not a whole lotta people I'd die for," she says quietly.

She doesn't add anything else, but she doesn't need to. He knows what she's saying; he's run in guns blazing for her before. Heard whispers he was just playing a hero, but that's not what it was. It was for Lil, nothin' else.

He knows exactly what she means, so he gives her a grin with all the energy he can muster. "And I love you, too," he says. "Partner."