A/N: Spoilers for 18x2 Misbegotten. Please read and review.
Rubbing her neck, Connie Rubirosa let out a sigh. McCoy had finally gone home, Cutter had stepped out and so she, the junior ADA, was left to do residual paperwork on the Dean Emerson case. Sure, she could do it in the morning, but she wanted to get it done with. Perhaps with the completion of the paperwork, the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach would also go.
"Forget about the kid…"
The words of Emerson's brother echoed in her head. The look of disgust he'd had on his face…the whole thing, as she'd told Cutter, made her sick.
She wanted children of her own some day – that was no secret. She wanted to be there for them, protect them. Even though she'd been in Homicide for a year and a half, the stories of unfeeling parents doing horrific things to their children would never cease to bother her.
"Still dwelling?" Mike Cutter had come back into the room without her even noticing.
"Excuse me?" She gave him a look as she straightened her posture. He was clearly a good lawyer, this she had learned, but she was still getting used to him.
"You're still sick over the Emerson baby," Cutter motioned at her with his baseball bat.
"People are twisted," Connie folded her arms over her chest defensively. "You can't tell me that didn't bother you."
"Sure it bothered me," Cutter said, "But you can't dwell on anything that happens in this office for too long. Otherwise nothing would ever get done." He emphasized his point by gesturing with the bat toward the pile of paperwork on her desk. "That's not gonna do itself, you know."
"Thank you, Mr. Sensitivity," Rubirosa rolled her eyes. It wasn't as if she'd expected the EADA to understand where she was coming from. They both approached the law from different directions, even more different than she and McCoy…Actually, she was more in line with McCoy's school of thought, which is why she'd made the 'no bashing Jack in front of Connie' rule. That, and she had no desire to be put in the middle of the two of them.
"You don't get to the big office by being sensitive," Cutter said, leaning against the door nearest to her desk, tapping the bat against the palm of his hand lightly, almost thoughtfully.
"No?" Connie looked over at him, a brow raised. "So all of that 'I answer to the victim' stuff was a load of crap?"
"I meant what I said." He pushed off of the door pane, leaving the bat leaning against it, as he moved to stand in front of her desk. "I answer to the victim. It doesn't mean I spend all day thinkin' about the victim or the screwed up world that we live in."
"Right," Connie said, standing up, thinking that it was time for her mid-afternoon coffee, "You spend it thinking about your conviction rate."
"Excuse me, Rubirosa?" Cutter moved closer to where she stood, his tone indignant.
The events of the trial and of that day taking their toll, Connie gave him a look. "You gonna tell me I'm wrong?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact." He took another step in. "You're dead wrong and I'm not sure where you get off making assumptions like that."
"Hmm," Connie narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sure if it's your tendency to disregard the Constitution or your constant whining about the fact that McCoy is interfering with your ability to win."
"I don't disregard the Constitution," Cutter exclaimed, "There's a difference between trampling it and interpreting it in order to put away dangerous criminals."
"A very fine line," Connie said pointedly.
"And that's what kills you, isn't it?" he challenged, his face inches away from hers.
It was then that they both noticed how close they were standing to one another. She could see the muscles in his jaw straining, as if holding additional words back. In turn, he could tell that she wasn't really mad – upset, yes, but mad at him? He didn't think so. For a moment, they looked at each other. It should have been brief – but it was one of those things that lasted a few seconds longer than was supposed to, causing the next instant when they both realized it to be awkward.
Connie took a couple of steps back. "No, what-uh-kills me is this stack of paperwork." Lamely, she looked back at her desk, trying to forget the angry, but passionate look in his eyes as he'd looked at her moments earlier.
Clearing his throat, Cutter moved toward the door. "Yeah, well, leave it for the morning. It'll be slow tomorrow and you could probably use some rest."
Before she had a chance to answer, he was gone, striding out the door in a few swift steps.