Title: The Cold

Fandom: Blind Justice

Pairings: Open to interpretation.

Warnings: Character death.

Summary: Inspired by a dream I had of trying to recognize a corpse while I was blind.


I don't need to be here; the body's already been identified.

I'm intruding.

Jim stands by the table with his left hip resting against it. He slowly crouches over, his movements cautious of bending too low to the body.

"There's a chair to your right," I offer, and I think it's the first time he recognizes he's not alone with her in this chilly room.

He blindly reaches out for it, screeching the metal legs along the hard floor tiles as he drags it toward him. He sits, and further scuffs the floor as he nudges to get closer to the table. Eek, eek, eek. Their sounds echo within the room.

His hands reach out for her head. He keeps to gentle pats until he understands where he is on the map of her face. His fingertips curve softly across her brow, along her bruised temple and down the smooth curve of her jaw. Then he takes both hands and—in a manner so gently I think he only graces the tips of her lashes—strokes from the bridge of her nose out over her closed eyes. I remember they are (they were) a deep chocolate brown. I wonder if Jim ever knew that.

Jim seems hesitant to feel further. He already knows its Karen. We told him so. He just refuses to believe us.

"Russo?" he calls out to me. I don't know why, but I pretend I've gone. I hold my breath. Silence.

On any other day, Jim wouldn't have fallen for it, but today he thinks his senses are playing tricks on him. Or maybe he wants someone to watch, to see.

Jim caresses her mouth, his fingers following the soft curves of her lips. He pauses for a moment, one hand on her lips and the other cupping the side of her head, wrapped in her hair. He bends over the table, his lips seeking her face.

I consider stopping him, this is too much, but his lips close down in a soft kiss against her forehead. The hand on her lips comes up to brush away the stray hairs from her face, then rests against the other side of her head. He stays like this, lifeless, unaware of anything other than his warm lips on her cooling head. Soon, she will blend in with the chilly room, and I wonder if he could ever distinguish her again.

A single sob is muffled against her forehead, and he cradles her with desperation.

I should think his hold is strictly platonic, and that I'm watching a man—a cop—mourning his partner. I dully wonder why he asked me to drive him here rather than his wife.

A/N: I'm feeling a little mixed about this one. I didn't intend for any kind of pairing, but I think, I like what I did.

I rewrote this stupid thing 3 times from different POV's, different points of the story, and even with different dead people. How do you like this combo?