Title: Protect and Serve
Summary: The Marines train only the very best. They are prepared for anything, ready to fight, ready to win. But with Detective Lillian Truscott falls for the woman she must help, she realizes that no training can prepare you for love. And that sometimes, love is even more dangerous than the world she helps protect.
Rating: Tame, for now.
Author's Note: I've been toying with this idea for a while now. I hope you guys like it. I promise more interaction soon! Review if you please!

Hard rain pounded against my windshield, briefly obscuring my vision. Summer storms, in all their warm and inconvenient glory, always made me jittery. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles a bright white. I had taken this route so often -- every day for the past four years -- and I knew every tree, every road sign, every bounce and pothole in the road so the obstruction was not my problem. That sound -- that hard, pounding rain and the bellowing rolls of thunder...that's what got to me. I snuck a glance at myself in the rearview mirror, grimacing at the sight before me. Hair haphazardly combed, two light magenta rings underneath both my eyes; I looked like shit on crack.

I had just come off pulling a double down at the station. We had four domestic violence calls within my first shift. The next twelve hours I had spent directing traffic, answering four separate 911 calls, and instructing young children on the dangers of drug use. Working for the LA County Sheriff's Department was a truly bittersweet job. It was bitter because I had spent three years serving time as a Corporal for the US Marine Corps in Afghanistan, what my fireteam called, "the forgotten warzone." Iraq may have its suicide bombers, and insurgents, but Afghanistan...there would be nothing for miles. Then suddenly, out of nowhere --

Thunder rolled again, lightning lighting up the dark night sky as bright as Times Square. I shuddered, squeezing my eyes shut for just a brief moment to push the flashback I was having out of my head. With a firm shake of my head, I rolled down my window a crack to allow some ventilation from the outside to circulate within my sedan. My disturbing memories dissipated for the moment, and I remembered my current occupation with more clarity. So while I was bitter because part of me missed my team, the smarter, less fatalistic part of me enjoyed being able to truly help our society, one case at a time.

Just a few exits before mine, my eyes darted to the side of the road. Coming up in front of me, nearly blotted out by the wide, hard droplets pelting the Earth, were the blinking lights of someone's hazards. The sight before me was just that...some sight. A drenched young woman, standing hopelessly in the rain. Her cell phone was flipped open, but by the way she was shaking it, I could tell her service was shot. I stepped out of my car, wincing as the hard rain droplets fell against my scalp. I was going to need one hell of a shower tonight.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked, my voice rather authoritative. The woman turned to me, shoving her cell phone into her purse. She looked...vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place how I recognized her face.

"There wouldn't be if I didn't have the world's suckiest cell phone provider," she griped, her eyes narrowing in my direction. Even through the sheets of rain, I could feel her judgment upon me. Seeing as how I was in plain clothes, just a pair of old jeans and a Strokes T-shirt, and she was wearing what seemed like they used to be expensive wear, before the rain had its way with the fabrics. "Do you have a cell phone?"

A smirked and walked towards her and the car, inspecting it. Her rear back tire seemed to be flat. I furrowed my brows and looked to her. "Is this the only problem? You have a flat?" I was a little incredulous, I will admit. How people are allowed to function and drive vehicles without learning how to properly change a tire is beyond me. I have seen normal people fix tanks the size of small houses, but for some reason, there's a good percentage of this country that cannot change a tire, and for that, I am deeply shamed.

She nodded. "Stupid thing just went flat on my way ..." she stopped mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes in critique once more. "Who are you?"

Not one to easily trust, I thought to myself. I dug into my back jean pocket and produced my badge. "Detective Lillian Truscott, Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department." I slid the badge back into my left pocket, metal exposed. This woman still had the audacity to size me up, her eyes analyzing me from head to toe. I shook my head, running my fingers through my increasingly soaked hair. "And you are?"

She looked visibly surprised. Shaking her head a moment, she sighed. "I'm Miley Stewart." Her arms were crossed over her chest, protectively. Her entire nature seemed protective, I noticed. Her body language was closed off, her words short and curt. In fact, I don't think unless I had introduced myself a a cop, she would've even told me her name. I waited for her to explain her situation, but she didn't.

I let out a loud, frustrated sigh. "Well, Miss Stewart, the way I see it, you have two options." I waited for a response, and when one didn't come, I continued. "You can either get back in your car, I can call dispatch and get someone out here, or you can drop the 'tude and I'll change this for you. As a side note? The first option will take at least an hour. Your flat tire is not on the station's top priority list."

My obvious annoyance and demeaning tone must have struck a note with her, as her eyes changed from scrutinizing to apologetic. "I'm sorry," she finally said. Her voice, thick with a Southern drawl she must have tried hard to get rid of, finally sounded sincere. "I've just...I've had a really long day, Detective, and I so did not need this right now." Her shoulders feel forward slightly, and I was muted by her despondence. I'm not one to gloat. Much.

I nodded, and without a word I went around to her driver's side, my Nike sneakers squishing against the pavement. I opened her truck latch, jerked her emergency brake into park, and went around to retrieve the donut from the bottom of her trunk. Black shirt pressed to my skin, I heaved the large wheel from the trunk. As I was grabbing the jack and wrench, I watched as a large black car slowed down, more than curious as to the situation. Another blast of lightning lit up the sky, the car sped away.

With a shrug I brought all the materials to the side of the car. I placed the jack in the small slot next to the tire, then began to remove her lug nuts from the tire. Her eyes were narrowed, intently watching my movements. "Is there someone you need to call? Will someone be looking for you?"

Miley nodded. "My mana--um, my dad," Miley quickly covered, biting her lower lip. "He's gonna wonder what's taking me so long. Probably really worried."

Rain was collecting in my eyebrows and pouring into my eyes, and I wiped it away every so often with my forearm. "On my driver's seat is a walkie talkie. Can you grab it for me?" Miley nodded dutifully as I continued my slow work on her tire. Once all five lug nuts were off, I began to pump the jack upwards. Once I had it safely in the air, I shimmied off the offending tire. Something was off. As I inspected the rubber piece, I noticed there were no holes. In fact, the whole thing seemed brand new.

Miley crouched next to me, nearly hovering over my shoulder. I gulped, nervous at the close contact. Something about this woman unnerved me. It was like knowing you're going to sneeze just as you open the top of your coffee. "Dispatch this is Detective Truscott, 13645. Do you copy?"

After a few moments of silence, dispatch crackled through. "This is Amber, how can I help you, Detective?"

Before I pressed the talk button, I looked to Miley. Her bright, green eyes were burning holes into my retina, and I had to wipe moisture from my eyes to take a break from her stare. "What's your father's name and number?"

"Robbie Ray Stewart, 818-555-7893" Miley answered.

"Hey, Amber. I've got a stranded pedestrian here, and I'm fixing her tire. I need you to call a Robbie Ray Stewart at 818," I paused, "555-7893. Tell him his daughter, Miley, is fine and she'll be on her way in fifteen minutes."

Another brief moment of silence fell before Amber broke through again, "Copy that, Lilly." I cringed as Amber used my nickname. I could feel Miley smirk from her position crouched next to me. "We'll get that call out."

"Copy, over," I replied, placing the walkie talkie down onto the gravel. My attention turned back to Miley's tire, inspecting the damage. "You said it just went flat?"

Miley nodded. "I was driving --"

"How fast?"

Miley blushed. Her cheeks flushed a light crimson, and I couldn't help but smile. "..Not too fast."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not gonna arrest you, Miss Stewart. I'm off-duty anyway. How fast?"

"About seventy-five, probably, when I realized the car was careening!" Miley yelled, almost knocking me off my feet. "My car started to swerve, so I pulled over. I was here only a couple of minutes before you showed up."

I nodded, my fingers tracing the tire. Suddenly, it dawned on me what looked out of place. Someone had, intentionally or otherwise, unscrewed Miley's cap on her air valve. The air had slowly seeped out of the tire for miles. "Here's your problem, Miss Stewart. Someone unscrewed your air valve. I don't know for how long, but your tire has been releasing air."

Miley's emerald hues went wide, and while she was inspecting it, I finally got to truly look at her. She was absolutely stunning. Not that it was uncommon in LA to find someone with movie-star good looks, but Miley was astounding. Dark, chestnut colored hair, a light tan to her skin, eyes greener that should be legal, and the fullest, most tantalizing lips I had ever been so close to.

Embarrassingly, I had been staring at her lips when she looked back at me. It wasn't until I saw them form the ghost of a smirk before I looked upwards. "Who could've done this?" Miley asked as I began to put on her spare.

I shrugged. "Pretty much anyone. I mean, any time you park your car and leave it, it's vulnerable. Auto theft is one of the largest crimes we get reported. We've got a whole bureau dedicated to it."

Miley shook her head. "Okay, but who would've wanted to do this to me," she emphasized. That was a valid point. Unscrewing someone's air valve was not only dangerous, but also very manipulative. Obviously, someone either wanted to hurt Miley, or at least get her alone.

"I can take your tire down to the station if you want them to get forensics to look at it, but I don't think much would be found. The rain would've washed away any DNA or prints the perp would've left." I had started to talk to Miley, but then I simply talked to myself. "I mean, to see how far you went before you lost all the air, we'd have to take your car."

Miley shook her head. "It's fine," she said, her tone aloof and dismissive. She stood, and I followed, tossing the wrench and jack into her trunk, shutting it firmly. "I'm sure it was just an accident."

I narrowed my eyes. Something about this seemed awfully contrived. Miley stepped closer to me, and I felt some heat despite the cold relentless rain between us. "Right. Someone accidentally sabotaged your tire." Miley swallowed some air, but her confidence never faltered. But I wasn't about to be persuaded by some beautiful stranger. "You really should report this. Or at least let me help you."

Miley smiled the brightest, most fake smile I had ever seen. Nobody perfects a smile like that overnight, I mused. She must always be putting on appearances. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and I couldn't help but feel the burn it created. "I appreciate that, Detective, but that won't be necessary." She took a strand of my blonde hair and wrapped it around her finger. "Thanks...Lilly."

I shot a glare in her direction, pulling away from her grip. She had attempted to sway me with...was she flirting with me? In any case, I stood my ground despite my initial libido's reaction. This woman had the power to make the air sizzle between us, like some down power line touching the ground. "Fine, Miss Stewart. But feel free to come down to the station if you feel any danger. Also, you can't drive more than one hundred miles on that spare, or go over 45. No more speeding," I chastised.

"Thanks, Detective," Miley said, slightly detached. I got the feeling -- a twinge, if you will -- that she was put off by my ignorance of her come-ons. Girls like that -- beautiful and confident -- always believe they can wrap someone around their finger. They're usually right.

But I have nerves of steel, I remind myself as I trudge back to my car, sopping wet with rain. At least, that's what I tell myself, despite the fact that I cannot get the image of her out of my head, or let go of the hope that I might possibly see her again. As I watch her car fade into the distance, I shut my eyes and try to extinguish the spark of dim hope I have.