Chapter Text
Oz isn't expecting to be asked for his ID and badge by the blonde officer outside the small meeting room. He watches her inspect them, check both against a slip of paper, before knocking on the door behind her.
Another officer opens the door and looks over her shoulder. "Your partner's here."
After a moment, she opens the door wider and lets Oz in.
There's a third officer in the room, another woman, sitting in the chair next to Daphne with a notepad in front of her. Daphne's sweater has vanished, leaving her in just a tank top and slacks. Her shoulders are drawn, hands in her lap and head tilted down.
It's the first time he's ever seen his partner look small.
There's a mark on her shoulder, he realizes, and everything clicks into place. All female officers. Checking his identity. They're protecting her, and he really does not want to think about what they're protecting kind, witty, badass Daphne Forrester from.
But he's a good detective. He's worked with victims before. He knows.
He also knows that if he treats her like a victim, it will wreck every last bit of the relationship they've managed to build over the year they've been assigned to each other. This is not a stranger. It's his partner.
He sits down across from her, ignoring the look the officer gives him. "Daph."
It takes Daphne a moment to meet his eyes, but something relaxes in her posture when she does. Oz decides to take that as a good sign.
"Hey," she says, slightly softer than usual.
"Hey," he echoes. There are goosebumps on her arms, and she's holding them close to her body. He can't tell if she's cold or just on edge, but it's something he can fix. "Do you want my jacket?"
Daphne nods hesitantly, and he shrugs off his blazer and passes it across the table. She pulls it on slowly, taking the time to adjust it and button it so it fits her better.
Then she stands up, tilting her chin up slightly and squaring her shoulders. It makes her look a little more like the Daphne he drove up to the conference with, but not completely. Her hands are still shaky when she gestures to the meeting room door.
"Can we get out of here?"
"Yeah," he says, managing to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Where to?"
She shrugs one shoulder and pushes through the doorway, giving him little choice but to follow. They walk down hallways for a few minutes until she turns sharply and opens another door. She steps in and holds it for him.
Oz catches it and eases it closed. Next to him, Daphne presses her forehead into the cinderblock, hair falling forward around her face.
She stays like that for ten seconds, then twenty, long enough that he leans against the wall adjoining hers. From here, it's easy enough to glance up and down the flights of stairs to make sure no one can sneak up on them without them knowing. Without him knowing, really, since Daphne doesn't seem to be paying much attention at the moment.
He keeps an eye on the stairs until she straightens from the wall and pushes her hair back behind her ears. She doesn't turn towards him until after she's dragged the backs of her hands across her eyes, one after another.
"Sorry," she says, and he shrugs and scoots over along the wall so she can stand next to him without having to touch him.
She leans against the wall so they're both facing the staircase. This is easier, Oz thinks — this is how they usually are, side by side in the front seat or a briefing or an interview room. He can read her best like this, out of the corner of his eye.
His partner is scared, and tired, and he can tell by the way she stares straight ahead that she's not quite alert. Daphne is trusting him, he realizes, and he's not quite sure what he's done to deserve it. They've been working together for a year, but a year doesn't feel like enough for her to trust him like this. To turn her back on him, to let him watch the staircase and the door, when she's doing little more than zone out next to him, arms folded over herself and hands clinging to the ends of his jacket sleeves.
He gives her a minute before he asks, "You eaten anything?"
She shakes her head.
"Want to walk to the sandwich place on the corner with me?"
"Anything to get out of this place for a bit," she says quietly, wiping her eyes again. It leaves faint streaks of mascara on the backs of her hands, and noticing that feels a bit like a betrayal to Oz. She's holding herself together. He's supposed to be helping.
"Sounds like a plan," he replies, and they start down the stairs.
Oz stays on the outside as they walk down the street, keeping himself between her and everyone else. He can tell she notices when he has to do an awkward little sidestep around an unbothered pigeon, but she doesn't seem to mind it, and she even slows down to let a guy with a stroller pass without the two of them having to walk single file.
The sandwich shop is practically empty, save for an old couple by the windows and a mother-daughter pair. The woman behind the counter takes their order and nods approvingly at Oz for knowing Daphne's order without having to ask. He remembers too late that she's still wearing his jacket, but he'd rather her assume this is a date than realize what it actually is.
Daphne picks a table in the back corner and shifts one of the chairs until its back is to the wall. She leaves the other seat, the one facing the rest of the restaurant and the front door, for him.
Oz puts the little card with their order number in its holder and sets a plastic cup of Coke on the table in front of her. "They didn't have cherry."
"That's okay," she replies, glancing over at the cup in his hand. "That is really orange."
He shrugs and takes a sip as he sits down. "That's why I got it."
"Gotta get in your daily dose of red dye forty?"
"I left my Swedish Fish in my car, so this is the next best thing."
That prompts a fraction of a smile from Daphne. Oz decides to consider that a win, but he thankfully doesn't have to think of something else to say, because the hostess arrives with their sandwiches. Daphne only eats about a quarter of hers, but she drinks the entirety of the cup of Coke. Oz deems that another win and gets her a box and another cup of Coke, and they head back to the hotel.
Thankfully, no one tries to talk to them in the lobby, and they make it into an elevator without anyone else. He hits the button for the fifth and seventh floors.
When the elevator doors open on the fifth floor, Daphne freezes.
"Did I get your floor wrong?" he asks.
She shakes her head slightly, and he reaches forward to hold the "door open" button. "Are you—" He manages to cut himself off before okay, because that is a stupid question and they both know it. "Would you rather stick with me?"
This time she nods, and he lets the elevator doors close. By the time they open again on the seventh floor, she seems to have settled again. She lets him lead her down the hall and closes the hotel room door behind them.
Then she stops, eyes half-fixed on the bathroom door. Oz's training collides with him at full speed. "Do you want to shower or change or something? I have spare clothes, or I can get your stuff from—"
Daphne shakes her head again. "If— if you have spare clothes, it's fine."
"Yeah. Here." He pulls a bundle out of his suitcase and exchanges it for the sandwich box and cup she's holding. "Take as long as you need, okay?"
She nods, once, already tucking herself behind the door. "Thank you."
Oz puts the sandwich in the minifridge and leaves the cup on the shelf below the TV. The shower is already running, but he switches on the news anyway. She probably doesn't want him to hear her cry, and if he's being honest, he doesn't want to either. He doesn't know what to do here.
Briefly, he considers calling someone and asking. The lieutenant would be able to tell him, or one of the senior detectives, Oliver or Karadec. Any of them would be better at this than he is, but they're not here. Oz is, and she's trusting him, and he's going to let her make the call on when to tell anyone else.
He sits down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard until his head hits the wall above it, and watches the meteorologist explain the downpour that's supposed to hit northern California around midnight.
Oz doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes the room is dark and the rain is hammering against the window. The shower has stopped, the TV's been turned down, and the only other source of light is the glow seeping from the slightly ajar bathroom door. Daphne is curled up next to him, half-buried under the covers. Her hair is braided, and the t-shirt and pajama pants he lent her are definitely too big. She seems calm, though, the fingers of one hand resting against the side of his knee.
It takes him a minute to realize she's sleeping. That seems impossible, but he stays still anyway, not wanting to disturb her. This, at least, he can do without worrying he's messing it up.
Oz isn't sure how long he sits there, still and silent as possible, before Daphne shifts, curling more tightly in on herself. Then she snaps awake, scrambling back and nearly falling off the bed.
"Whoa," he says automatically, but he at least manages to stop himself from reaching out to catch her.
Daphne's eyes lock onto his, wide and wired for a moment until she finally seems to recognize him. Her shoulders relax slightly, and she stills. "Sorry."
"Don't be."
He isn't really sure what else to say. They stare at each other for a moment before she sighs and shifts to lean against the headboard next to him.
"Not great for your first police con as a detective," she says, tiredly, apologetically. It takes Oz a moment to realize that it's an apology to him.
"That is not your fault." His tone is firmer than he had expected. She tilts her head against the wall to look at him.
"I know." Her whole body slumps against the headboard as she sighs. "Still sucks."
"Still sucks," he echoes.
They sit in silence for a while, half-watching the anchors discuss whatever passes for late-night news. In his peripheral vision, she tucks her legs up and folds her arms on top of her knees, resting her chin on them.
"Your sandwich is in the fridge if you want it," he offers.
"Thanks," she says, but doesn't move. Oz stays quiet.
The rain lets up. The two anchors on the TV are replaced by a tiny woman who's clearly had enough coffee to last her until dawn. Daphne doesn't move.
"Do you want to just go home?" Oz finally asks.
She tilts her head to look at him. "What?"
"Back to LA." He gestures to the window and the parking lot beyond it. "It's not like we have to wait around for a flight."
"Are you even awake enough to drive?" she replies, and it sounds almost like regular, everyday Daphne.
Oz shrugs. "A couple hours, at least. We can switch off."
"Why?"
Every answer he can come up with feels insufficient, dishonest, or patronizing. He settles, hesitantly, on, "You're my partner."
She almost smiles. "Yeah."
Carefully, he holds out a hand between the two of them, not crossing into her space. "Let's go home, Daph."
Daphne looks at his hand for a moment before taking it. "Okay."