( While I finish up on my project that ya'll are hopefully going to enjoy, I thought I'd write a little angsty fluff to keep you guys entertained lol. I'm not going to lie, I could've done a lot better, but making Tinsley's character stressed me out like crazy. )

( NOTE: This is the Buzzfeed Unsolved's fandom version of C.C. Tinsley. There... well, there isn't really much of a version, so I sort of made my own version, but in the body of Shane. Does that make sense? I hope so. Anyways, if you want to know more about him, look up The Mysterious Disappearance Of The Sodder Children. )

( Ain't Nothing like Frank Sinatra, a oneshot where you, the extremely energetic reader, are a music fanatic who loves those good old early 1900's songs. When your buddy Tinsley looks a little too stressed, you think some good old blues and jazz will fix him right up. But, it doesn't just benefit him. The reader finally accepts that she has some old wounds that need a little TLC too, and it's about time she addressed them. )

________________________________________________________________________________

Rain had been falling for hours now. You tapped your pen boredly against your desk, your fist balled up against your cheek as you stared at your computer screen. The gentle tapping behind you was the only other thing you heard besides the thunder and rain. You turned to look over your shoulder, your chair squeaking as you snuck a glance.

Detective C.C. Tinsley sat there, hunched over his desk as his fingers danced over the keyboard in front of him. Good, he was distracted. Your eyes darted over to the radio sitting on a filing cabinet just beside your desk. Trying not to make too much noise, you crept along the old floor in your revolving chair. Your outstretched fingers were pointed towards the buttons, reaching for the one that would turn it on. With one last look at the barely-awake detective, you made a grab for the radio.

"Don't even think about it."

"Ugh." Defeated, you fell back into your chair. "How? How do you always ?"

"You get quiet," he muttered tiredly, not bothering to look over his shoulder at you. "Too quiet. Well, for you, any amount of quiet is suspicious."

"Oh, ha, ha," you snorted lightheartedly. You swiveled around in your chair to look at him, your head slowly tipping to your shoulder with an unimpressed expression on your face. The silence was so boring. "Hey, Tin-Man."

No reply. The only answer you got was the grumble of the storm outside.

"Tinny Boy."

Again, you were left with nothing. You groaned and slid out of your chair, waltzing in a drunken fashion to your friend and leaning on his shoulder.

"Tinsley," you said, strictly this time.

"Hmm," he hummed vexedly, not giving you one ounce of his attention. His brown trench coat was still damp from the rain, which was probably why he was shivering like he'd just gotten thrown into the Arctic. Your apartment was usually pretty cool, so that definitely wasn't helping. Your curious eyes wandered onto his bright computer screen, finding nothing but notes about a murder case drawling along the page he had open. Even in his writing, you could tell that he wasn't feeling his best.

"Come on, man," you sighed, taking the back of his chair and pulling him away from his desk.

"Y/N-" he protested, but you instantly shushed him.

"Shh-shh-shh-shush." You tapped your finger against your lips as you turned him to face your desk. You sat back in your chair and swung one leg over your other, taking up what you liked to call the 'Interrogation' pose; your elbows were propped up on your legs, your hands forming a triangle at your fingers, which did a poor job of hiding your smile. "What's up, Long Legs?"

"Nothing's 'up'," Tinsley grumbled in response. His brown hair was messy, like he had tried to take each individual strand and set them in a different direction than all the others. Dark bags hung under his dull eyes. "I'm just trying to do my job, Y/N."

"But you're never so... gloomy... it's seriously scary, Tinsley," you said, beginning to realize that acting flippant would only aggravate him as your arms dropped to rest on your legs.

He slowly blinked. "It is a murder case. I'm not exactly going to be dancing around and laughing while I'm taking notes on dead bodies."

You opened your mouth to protest, but promptly shut it; the look he gave you was scary enough to make even your ADHD go completely quiet. However, you still disagreed with him. It actually wasn't unlike him to be very chipper while investigating, but it seemed like he wasn't keen on admitting it. Or maybe he just didn't know how energetic he usually was.

"Tins, something's up," you said as gently as possible. "I know you. And... I know you're super stubborn and tough and blah, blah, blah, but it's okay to talk about what you're feeling sometimes."

"I can't talk about what doesn't exist," he retorted, and swung around in his chair to face his desk. "Now, if you'll please excuse me, I've got work to do."

You groaned and stood again, pushing your chair back as you sauntered into your kitchen. Often times, he came over to your apartment to do some investigating. You had an office space that used to have two people using it, but now it was just you and your corgi, Barkley, also known as Fluffbutt McGee. Speaking of Barkley, here he comes now, his little tail wagging as you opened your refrigerator. You can see the question in his sparkling little eyes; "Can I have a treat, please?"

"No, Barkley," you said with a chuckle. You dove your head into the refrigerator in search of something to snack on. A little whine came from behind you as a paw tapped your calf impatiently.

"No, Barkley!"

Something caught your eye. Two slices of Hawaiian pizza, wrapped up in plastic wrap. Now, most people would look at that and say, "Ew, ugh, Hawaiian pizza! So gross." But not C.C. Tinsley. No, C.C. Tinsley was one of the Hawaiian-pizza people. You wrinkled your nose in distaste and looked for something else. It was, like, three days old anyways, which made the idea of eating it worse. Oh, there! Look again. Yes, there. Half of a ham sandwich could be seen on the shelf above you, smushed between a bottle of apple juice and a container of yogurt. You smiled and took your prize back to your desk, Barkley trotting along hopefully at your heels. But, before you sat down, the thought of your distressed companion distracted you from your food.

You stared at him for a moment from the entryway, thinking about something to do to cheer him up a little. Well, what usually cheered him up was going out on a walk, but that obviously wasn't going to happen with the storm raging outside.

Rrr, rrrrr.

Your focus was tugged down to your feet, where Barkley sat whining with his stubby tail wagging. His eyes darted from your sandwich to your eyes. Before you could say no, he got up and twirled around a few times, performing the "dance" trick you'd taught him a few months ago. It was pretty adorable.

Gears slowly growled to life in your mind. You glanced between Tinsley and Barkley a few times, a smile slowly spreading on your face. Dancing... maybe, just maybe, you really could solve the dreadful case of C.C. Tinsley's perpetual gloom. You continued to ponder over your newly formed plan for a minute before grabbing your phone and hurrying out of the room.

It took a minute to find your speaker. It was somewhere in your mess of a room, you knew that, but where? Turns out, it was under your sweatshirt the whole time. You had looked everywhere except for under your sweatshirt, which had a weird, speaker-shaped lump under it. Who'd have thought it would be there? Anyways, you head out into the living room, sneaking a peak into the office. Tinsley was looking much more doleful now, hugging his damp trench coat close to his body as he stared with a deadpan expression at his computer.

There was no way you could deny that it made you sad to see him so down in the dumps. He was almost never like this! Usually, you'd be feeding off of each other's chaotic energy until Detective Horsley had to settle you both down. Seeing him so depressed was... well, it was scary.

You set the speaker and your uneaten sandwich down on the coffee table, pulling out your phone. It was a Bluetooth speaker, so you didn't have to worry about any chords getting tangled up. The two devices connected with a beep, and you heard Tinsley's chair squeak like it always did when he was about to call for you or look into the hallway. Remembering what he'd said earlier, you tapped your foot like you usually would, you sighed contently and laid back on the couch like you were bored, and tried to be the most normal you could. For a while, there was silence besides your tapping foot—you'd decided to copy the rhythm of Sh'boom (Life Could Be a Dream) by The Chords—and the rain.

Crrrrreak. He was facing his desk again. Either way, he was going to be mad about the music at first, but you just wanted to see if you could manage to trick him. You smiled to yourself and twirled your phone in your hand. With a tap of your thumb on the home-button, you were in, and it looked like you had left off on Spotify. Convenient!

You scrolled through your many playlists and found just the right one; Oldies. You listened to this one the most. And, being the music addict that you were, you had Spotify Premium. So now all you had to do was think about what song to play first...

La Vie en rose? you thought, but promptly shook your head. No, I need something exciting! Dream A Little Dream of Me... uhh... no, not that one either-

And then it popped up. That's Life, by the legend himself; Frank Sinatra. Now, you weren't going to lie, you thought the lyrics were kinda funny considering the situation. But something in the song snagged your attention. You glanced up from the bright screen of your phone and into the dim glow of the computer in the other room, and pushed play.

A cheerful tune began to play, and you heard Tinsley's hands jolt back from the keyboard.

"Y/N!" he growled, and you only turned the volume up. "Y/n, come on- ugh."

This was the part where he was supposed to get up and come investigate. But, instead, you heard something a lot like the forehead of a mentally drained man hit the desk in defeat.

That's Life!

You cackled out loud at the timing, and you heard Tinsley groan in frustration.

"Come on, Tinsley!" you called, still laughing. "That was funny, you can't even deny it."

"I can deny it, and I will deny it until the day that I die."

"Okay, Mr. Grumpy," you jested, and quickly realized that you probably shouldn't have said that. You waited in uncomfortable silence to be yelled at, but it seemed C.C. Tinsley didn't have the energy to fight back. Oh, this would be a tough one to fix, wouldn't it? You slid up from the couch and sauntered into the office.

Tinsley sat with his head on a few sheets of paper, looking like he was about to go crazy.

"Hey," you said, tapping his foot with your foot.

"Leave me alone." His voice was muffled by the papers under his face.

"No," you said bluntly, shaking your head. "Nope. Sorry, that's not going to happen."

And, now is the part you see that he really wasn't too tired to fight back. No, he was just bottling it up, and the jar had swallowed its fill of inconveniences. The pressure was too much.

He bolted upright in his chair, his eyes gleaming like knifes in the blue glow of the screen.

"Just leave me ALONE!" he shouted. The jar exploded as he spoke, shards breaking out and shooting from his mouth with his words. So startled by the stab you felt in your chest, you stumbled back against the frame of the door. One of them had pierced your heart, and you could feel it bleeding.

The two of you stared at each other. His eyes were more alive than they had been all night, and yours were wide and frightened.

It was now that you realized how important it must be to him.

"I'm... I'm sorry." You'd planned to sound confident, but your voice trembled between your lips like a terrified five-year-old.

He sighed, turning back towards the computer as he shook his head. His lips were pursed, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Most people would have seen a dead end here.

But you?

You were the type to make your own road.

"Hey," you said, stepping closer. You held your hand out to him, and he eyed it like you'd just pointed a gun at him. "Come dance with me. Just a little while."

Tinsley narrowed his eyes, and you could see that he was about to lose it.

"It'll make you feel better," you added hastily, for your own sake. "I promise."

You expected him to say something, but he still just stared at you.

"Just a few songs?" you asked hopefully, and put on the most shiny-eyed puppy face you could muster.

He sighed, hanging his head. For a second you thought you'd actually killed him. Tinsley slowly started nodding, and took your hand.

That good old Tinsley briefly shone through his cloudy eyes once again as he looked up at you with a half-smile.

"You are very lucky you're my friend," he grumbled with a huff.

You smiled and pulled him up from his chair. When he let go of your hand, you felt a part of you be tugged away with it. It was a strange feeling. The feeling was so strong that it stunned you into just standing there like an idiot. When you didn't move, the strange look Tinsley gave you pushed you back into the living room.

What just happened? you wondered, but shoved the question away before you tricked yourself into dwelling on it for another few hours.. You twirled around in the middle of the living room, and with a playful smile you held your hand out to him.

"I'll have you know, C.C. Tinsley doesn't dance," he said, and although he looked serious, you could tell your perseverance was paying off.

"That's what I told myself for years, too," you replied, and gestured to him with a toss of your head. "Come here-"

"Must I really-"

"Yes, Tinsley, you promised."

"I don't recall promising anything."

You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Come oooooon! Tins, just dance with me. Please."

He raised his eyebrow at you.

"My arm is going to fall off if you don't take it," you said. "And then I'll only have one arm. How horrible would that be? I'd just be running around with one arm, all because you wouldn't dance with me."

And, finally, he smiled.

"All right," he sighed, and took your hand. Just as your palms met, the song changed.

Dammit! you thought, but the moment you recognized the song you found yourself having to hide an embarrassed smile.

Put Your Head On My Shoulder by Paul Anka began to play softly from your speaker.

Tinsley didn't seem to mind, and guided you closer. You watched him entwine your fingers together indifferently and place his free hand on your waist.

Funny thing was, you hadn't actually expected him to dance. Like, dance dance. Like, dance as in slow dancing. Heat rose to your cheeks, and your mind went to complete static. Not a single thought could make its way into your head- well, besides oH MY GOD STOP BLUSHING STOP BLUSHING STOP BLUSHING STOP BLUSHING-

Hesitantly, you put your hand on his shoulder. As was usual for the woman to do while dancing, you let him lead you. You had to admit, it was pretty awkward. Your mouth opened about fifteen times before clamping shut. Not a single thing that came to mind felt right to say.

"I wasn't expecting a slow dance," you suddenly blurted. Well, it was honest, at least. All of the other things you'd thought of were either completely unrelated or dishonest.

"Well, what were you expecting?" he asked you, tilting his head down to look you in the eye. You averted your gaze uncomfortably. It was astounding how he never backed down from a good old staring contest, but this didn't feel like one of his games. It felt unpleasantly grave, like he took the matter very seriously.

"I... uh..." you stumbled over your own words, searching for something to say. When you realized you were completely lost, you just started laughing from embarrassment. "I don't know! I didn't really have a plan. I just thought, 'ooh, my best friend's super depressed. Dancing will definitely fix it.' and... yeah, here we are."

He shook his head with a smile. "You are... strange, do you know that?"

"It's not like you tell me that every day that you can," you replied with a laugh.

Do you like my strangeness? Or am I annoying to you? I really hope I'm not annoying to you.

Tinsley's eyes looked between your own, as if deciding which one he wanted to peer into. His lips parted, words sitting just on the edge of his tongue, but he was hesitating. You could tell he was getting flustered about something. Eventually, he stopped trying, and the two of you chuckled very, very awkwardly.

Now that you thought about it, no experience with Tinsley was as strange as this one. The two of you swayed in the living room, the music playing sweetly in the background. You danced right out of his arms and into memory lane, thinking about all the adventures the two of you have had. Some were just every day things for normal people, but others? Well, let's just say sometimes you get a sneak peek at the cases he and Horsley work on. And by 'sneak peek' I mean Tinsley literally sneaks you into the crime scenes so your curiosity can be satisfied. Is it against policy? Oh, hell yes it is. But he never seems to pay attention to the policy anyways.

It had been almost three years now since the two of you had met, and you'd already lived more in these past three years than you had in all of the others before them.

Your foot came down on something that wasn't the floor. Tinsley jumped, and you realized that you'd stepped on his foot.

"Oh, sorry!" you said, instinctively going to back away from him. Tinsley pulled you back towards him, laughing quietly.

"Off in La La Land, are you?" he asked jokingly. He was gradually warming up, that cold mask he wore over his playful personality finally melting away.

"Yeah." You could feel yourself blushing like crazy, and you were begging your body to stop making you look like an idiot.

The song changed right then. Fly Me To The Moon by Frank Sinatra began to play. You immediately adjusted to the beat of the song, bouncing a bit to match the rhythm. Tinsley smiled and followed along in a sluggish kind of way.

Fly me to the moon,

Let me play among the stars.

Let me see what spring is like on...

A-Jupiter and Mars.

A bright flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a fierce rumble of thunder.

In other words...

Hold my hand.

Tinsley readjusted your hands, holding yours tighter.

In other words...

He looked down at you, and when your eyes met all you could do was grin like an idiot because of how nervous you were.