Disclaimer: They're not mine.
A/N: This is for the challenge Beaujolais put forth on the Jim Brass Fansite, because March Madness meant no new CSI for weeks and well, we need our Brass fix.
In Repair
She's been my Wednesday afternoon date for almost three months. Like Gil says, it could be my longest relationship in years. At first it was Wednesdays and Fridays, then just Wednesday and now we're down to every other week. MaryAnn Bloward, LCP. Yeah, she's a shrink—got it in one. But I wanted to get back to work and before McKeen would sign me off, this was just one more hoop he asked me to jump through. I told him I don't jump so good since May 11th, but he didn't budge. So here I am. And you know, I don't mind too much. Even someone like me can admit when someone else has a good idea. And now I'm back to work I could have stopped seeing her, but I still come. She's a good listener.
I tap on the half-open door and step into her office. She's behind her desk and motions me to the chair. My shoes sink into the carpet as I walk over to the armchair and sit down. There isn't a couch. She says they're things of the past. But this chair is nice. Really comfortable, and I fight the urge every time I sit down to kick off my shoes, loosen my tie and look for a beer.
Her desk sits behind me, and she behind it, in front of a wall of windows. When the sun's in the right spot, like it is today, I can see her shadow on the wall I face. But not for long. I hear pages rustling. There's a click of a ballpoint pen being readied, that's a sure sign we're about to begin. I watch her shadow walk around her desk and into my sight. She sits down opposite me.
"Jim." Her voice is pointed, but not hard. "So tell me how the last couple of weeks have been."
This is only my second visit since we dropped down to every other week and I went back to the department. I can sense the probing tone in her voice, questioning whether it was the right move, now that I'm back on the job. "Homicides, missing persons, and a serial killer". I'm never flowery with her; she's contracted to the LVPD so knows all the stories. I may be considered hard-bitten, but I bet she's heard stuff that would make even my hair stand on end.
She's scribbling. I always lose my train of thought as I watch her scribble notes. Yeah, of course I asked what she puts down in her little notebook because I have one just like it. But she won't give out specifics. I get that. It's not like I'd give up my notes to a perp, either.
"Okay. So now really tell me how the last couple of weeks have been."
That's her first question at every appointment and because my first response is never the one she's looking for, it's naturally her second question, too. If she's tired of this, she hides it well—I'm sure I'm not her first cop to beat around the bush.
This is where I start to fidget. I cross and uncross my legs, then my arms. I pull the loose thread on one of my shirt buttons. I'm very aware that if I were a suspect guilty would be plastered to my forehead. I thought that once I went back to the force we'd have other things to talk about, but I guess the subject's still me. It's that or listening to the hum of the A/C for fifty minutes, and as there's no getting around it, I just plunge in, "I'm tired." I know her next question, so I'll keep on going, "Not enough sleep. One of my CSI's lost her father, and we've been spending quite a bit of time together off-shift."
There's no way she's not biting on that. She looks up from her notebook and stops scribbling, "Tell me about—,"
I cut that line of questioning right off. "Um ah um, no." I say it again, just to make sure. But I'm pretty sure MaryAnn won't force this. One of the things I like about her is her knack for knowing when to push, pull or leave alone. And if I'm not prepared to think too much about Catherine Willows, then I'm certainly not prepared to talk about her.
Maybe a little too quickly I change the subject, "I had my first hotel room homicide since coming back." It was actually over a month ago and there have been two since that one—it's Vegas, we've got close to 200,000 rooms—but I haven't wanted to discuss it until now. I can never tell what will get her going, but she digs around this for more than half the session, mainly unearthing my emotions. And under her persistence, I admit it. That entering that hotel room scared the shit out of me. How I had to keep my finger far from the trigger because I wasn't sure of myself. Standing with Catherine in the hallway outside the room I was fine, but when that door opened it was like my heart was suddenly turned to full volume; I couldn't hear a thing but rushing blood. And anyone who tells you that kind of stress ain't physical is lying. When I re-holstered my gun my right shoulder hurt like a bitch.
After she's had enough of hearing about hotel rooms she branches off, scribbling a few more things before asking, "How's the rehabilitation going?"
Now that's something I don't mind talking about. I relax my shoulders a bit and realize again how much I like this chair. "I finished up with physical therapy last week." We used to spend a lot of time talking about my physical therapy in these sessions. The worst part of getting shot? The getting better. The first stage of that was working on my range of movement, progressing to weights and swimming. The doctor in charge of my rehab made me promise that even though he was signing me off I continue it a few times a week on my own time, and I've been good.
We had a case a couple of years back involving the Wranglers—they're as close to the NHL as Vegas is ever gonna get—well two of their players got cut up pretty bad and left to die in the trunk of a car. Classic Vegas stuff. The only thing that case didn't have was two graves in the desert. Anyway, I'm a pretty big stick fan, so I spent a little more energy on that case than maybe I would others and after all was said and done, I arrested their coach and ended up with a standing invite to use their training facilities and rink whenever I wanted. So that's what I do when I get a break in my schedule. Twenty laps in the pool and some weights, and because it's usually the middle of the night I don't have to see or talk to anyone except sometimes when the janitors are working late. Or early.
She's looking at her watch, which is more for me than her, so I know my fifty minutes are close to up. I book my next appointment, get out of the chair, which is getting a lot easier to do nowadays, and say goodbye. And just as I do every time I leave her office I promise myself that next time I'll tell her about Ellie.