He'd become acutely tuned to her nightmares over the past two weeks.
He'd found her under a conference room table, sleeping bag and all, just a mess of chopped red strands visible from beneath the blue fabric. He thought her hair looked atrocious. It made her blue eyes muddy and sunken. But he wondered even if she hadn't taken a whack at her post-blonde locks, would her eyes still be distant and tired?
He sat nearby, watching her still sleep there on the thin, cheap carpet, amongst forgotten paperwork and year-old coffee stains. She didn't even seem to be breathing at all. He'd be lying if he'd denied the chill that ran up his spine at the thought.
Finally, he roused her and coaxed her back to his apartment, though after a run to a late-night convenience store for two ice cream pints. Her insistence on chocolate-chip cookie dough was the only sign that Margret Jordan still existed in the shell of a body she'd become.
Neither of them spoke on his sofa, but spooned their ice cream quietly. His attention only turned to her when the scraping of her spoon against the cardboard stopped.
She stared into the creamy concoction, seemed to be pondering it intensely.
Desperately, he wanted to reach out for her. Put an arm around her. But that was passing boundaries, and enough of those had been crossed for one night.
So he let her stare, let her gaze into the box until the ice cream melted and the condensation wrinkled her finger tips.
The first two nights, she slept on the couch. On the third, she stood in his doorway, in an old t-shirt of his, her skin pale and ghost-like in the moonlight. For the first time, he noticed her pigeon-toed feet and her knees almost knocking together as she shivered, standing there trying to hold herself together.
They hadn't touched. Hadn't mentioned how inappropriate this situation was. He figured it was because she knew she needed someone. That being alone was just killing her faster.
She tried to glue herself to the very edge of the mattress, as far away from his as possible, and he tried not to focus on her uneven breathing when she slept.
Sometimes, he'd hear whispers while she slept. Sentences that made no sense. An address? "The house on east 88th street…" she would mumble, in a voice that was almost motherly. He never asked.
One night, he listened as her breathing stilled. He waited, tensed and staring up into the patterns on the ceiling, waiting for a ragged breath to follow. He felt a tug on the sheets, off of his chest and around her torso as she turned. Still, there was no breath.
"Maggie," he said loudly, moving immediately to her across the plane of the mattress.
She sucked in a breath finally, wheezing and scratchy, but didn't wake.
"Maggie." His hand landed on her wrist and immediately she pushed him away, bolting upright on the mattress. She gave a short scream, shoving him back with both hands, not fully aware yet.
"No! Don't touch him! Don't touch him!" she screeched, fending him off, though he'd already done his best to get out of the way of her tantrum.
He backed to the far corner of the mattress as she came to reality, sitting in a shivering heap at her own corner.
For a long while, they stared at one another.
In the next moment, he was holding her as her face twisted from shock and confusion to deep grief. He watched two tears hit the clean white sheets and crossed back into her territory, pulling her to him. She didn't protest.
She felt small and fragile, but round all at the same time.
The crying didn't last long. Eventually, she tired herself out and the whole ordeal was over. In the morning, she attempted an explanation, but he waved a hand. He wouldn't hear it. War stories were never discussed among friends.
During his tour in the Middle East, he'd seen everything. Or so he'd thought. He'd grown weary, beaten, and hardened. But he'd grown smart and resilient. Maggie was just falling apart. Maggie was wasting away.
And he had no way to amend it.
-O-O-O-
AN: Sorry so short, but this may be continued as she season progresses. This season is totally turning the tides between everyone and I want to see how that plays out. I'd like to think that Jim and Mac are good friends, and he'd go to her—like he did often last season—to discuss this situation and find advice. But I don't think Mac fully trusts Jim anymore after the whole Romney incident, and it'd take a whole new chapter for Jim to explain his relations with Hallie and honestly…I don't see anyone being there for Maggie right now. Everyone's against her, and Sloan has a whole different enchilada on her plate to deal with. Ahhhh this season. Can I just fan girl for a moment?!
Reviews are lovely. Hope you enjoyed.