So I watched the premier of 'FBI' and wasn't that moved. I'm not a huge fan of procedurals. However, I caught another episode on a plane, and absolutely fell in love with OA Zidan. The show is still in its first season, so I'm it still has time to find its heart like Law and Order: SVU. I did however, love episode 1x16. There's nothing better than a bit of danger and freaked out partners. In this story, I'm exploring the FBI 'verse and amping up the feels. Please let me know what you think!
Delicate Comforts
Grief was such a nebulous thing.
OA thought he'd seen all its mutations and sneak attacks, and yet somehow, years after his father's death, there it was, whispering in his ear, gnarled hands coercing him to tackle a deranged teenager and his extremely loaded gun.
Because in another minute, Maggie's hair-trigger patience would run out, and she'd open fire; her bullets reducing this kid to a visceral mess for surgeons at best or the crime lab at worst. And his father would have lost his wife and son in the same year. OA was still discovering new depths of grief, and it was his job to prevent that from happening.
And OA was damn good at his job.
Even with the ballistic vest, the bullet felt like an explosion in his gut. It reverberated through through him like fire, scorching down and out to the tips of his toes to the back of his head. He couldn't hear, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but weakly paw for the hole in his chest and writhe for air with lungs felt irrevocably dented. He'd seen in battle: a bullet punching through his buddy's kevlar like it was brittle paper. Light streaming prettily through the gruesomely wide hole where life and organs once resided.
Maggie filled his frame, reassuring him him that the vest had protected him in her soothing tone that sounded oddly like a Disney princess. OA had to wipe the fearful expression twisting her face with a silly remark puffed out on half a breath.
Time sped up even though he couldn't breathe around the tremendous pain and the phantom hole. An ambulance and CT collar gave way to an ER trauma room and a battery of tests. The pain relievers and signing discharge papers were by far his favorite parts. Though the doctors wanted him to stay a few more hours for observation, there were no broken ribs, internal bleeding or fractured organs. Just a horrifying, hot contusion that was reddish-blue, already hinting on black, and an extremely pissed off partner.
Maggie insisted on taking him home and helping him to the door. OA had never hated his fourth floor walk-up more than he did today. Sweat pooled at his temples, dripping down the curve of his back as he breathed loud and tight through his mouth, wishing he had the strength to shrug off the arm Maggie had offered him or that she didn't seem like she was still so angry, she'd sooner dump him down the stairs than help him up the next one. Another manifestation of grief, he figured.
OA stopped her at the door. "I got it from here."
Maggie seemed like she wanted to fight, her mouth opened for a minute before closing with a click of the teeth. She'd never been in his apartment before. Their partnership while loose and relatively easy was still firmly professional. OA was raised to draw clear boundaries with co-workers, and he almost always had. Maggie took his keys from him and unlocked the door, no doubt stealing glances at his apartment: its smoke gray walls, oversized blue couch with the prayer mat tucked in the far corner, beneath the window lined with African violets, succulents and his art supplies just below.
OA shuffled inside, right arm still pressed to his side, and gently turned, holding the door. "I'm fine, Mags," he said tightly. "I'll see you in the morning."
He rarely noticed how small she was, and how when she was scared, she resembled a shellshocked teenager, not an experienced FBI agent with a four commendations in her jacket. She gaped up at him, eyes big and wet and purely brown. "You're not coming in tomorrow, OA. The doctor said the rest of the week, and then desk duty."
After the chaotic terror of the day, OA was grateful to fall in familiar patterns. "Cool, you can do all of the paperwork while I curl up with my DVR," he forced a smile.
She didn't return it. "Is there anyone you want me to call? Your mom or sisters?"
OA cringed. His father had supported him through West Point, but after he'd passed, Omar's need to serve had been a point of contention between him and his mother. Her fear over losing him had turned into anxiety, which snowballed into crippling depression when he was deployed. He left active duty not for his well-being but for hers. Becoming an FBI agent was a compromise. He still got to serve his country, and but there was just a borough between them, not two continents. He didn't want to worry her. Nor did he want another lecture from a furious woman, at least not today. "I'll call her in the morning. Stop by when the bruises fade a little."
"Hiding the evidence, smart." She said, staring at the scone on the wall just beyond his head. He hadn't truly looked at him since their tenseness at the hospital.
"Maggie," he said strongly. His voice rumbled his chest uncomfortably. "Get some sleep, okay?"
"Call me if you need anything…I'm just…"
"All the way across town, I know."
"I'm serious, OA. If you need anything, call.
The intensity of the day sluiced over them, unshakable and sticky, and they stood, one of either side of the threshold for more than a moment, realizing how close OA had come to certain death and attempting to ground themselves in the presence of each other, like they did every day.
OA pulled Maggie to his side in an awkward, one-armed embrace. "Look ma, no holes," he sang in whisper.
Maggie choked a laugh, which reverberated through him. It was worth the throb of pain that soared above his waning painkillers' tolerances. "If you weren't hurt, you'd know I punch you."
The grin was genuine. "I'm taking advantage while I can. Good night, Maggie."
"'Night, OA."
Finally, mercifully, blessedly, it was quiet. Not the piercing, vacuum of sound after a gun fired, but the intimated, appointed quiet of his own home and with his corner of the city just beyond.
Changing clothes was required an ingenuity and OA's ability to stoke tear-inducing, breath-stealing pain that he just didn't have the energy to sustain. Thanks to gravity, he managed to shimmy into a pair of track pants without bending over at all, but remained shirtless. He downed his painkillers with two bites of bread from the counter, and a handful of water from the sink–the less reaching the better—and stared despondently at the ice trays sitting there for washing after a smoothie experiment gone wrong.
Desperate and in pain, he snagged a bag of frozen edamame and headed for the couch. The room was spinning by the time he reached it. He sank down with a poorly stifled groan, and wondered how long he'd feel as if his heart was slapping against the back his breastbone and somehow pulling on the back of his throat. He pulled his mother's crocheted blanket over him, gratefully pressing the frozen bag against his bandaged chest. OA was sleep before he felt the chill of the icepack.
And screaming the next.
It was an ugly, rutting sound more apt for a diseased animal than a bruised FBI agent. Instinct was once again his puppeteer, and even despite the pain, he found himself scrambling off the couch, and nearly upending the coffee table–the primal instinct to seek cover overpowering the tremendous pressure in his chest. Adrenaline ravaged his system, rendering him shaky and sweaty and panting at a cadence his battled ribs couldn't handle. The tears that dripped down his cheeks, melding into the chevron of sweat, were quite real.
OA recognized the throws of a PTSD-nightmare, even if it had been years since his last. "You're safe, Omar. You're safe." He muttered through an agonizing cough, both hands pressed to his aching chest.
He used the shock of the pain to ground himself, and focused on his senses. He could smell the sour tang of his own sweat, and the lingering turmeric from his favorite chicken curry. His back was awkwardly jammed against he back of the couch, feet dug into the soft plush of the shaggy rug his sister had bought him. He followed the think sloping blue lines amidst the sea of white tufts, focusing on its plushness and her smile as she dragged it into his apartment, raving about how it "brought the room together."
The snap-plink of heavy rain drifted to his ears beyond the audible scrape of this own rapid breaths. It should've been soothing but it wasn't. The impact of each drop reported line that of a gun, instead of the shrill sprinkle of water.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table, and OA instinctively pawed for it, panting into the receiver.
"OA?" Maggie called, slightly worried.
OA's chin trembled, and grit his teeth out of sheer pride.
"Omar," she snapped. She used his full name sparingly, like a mother chastising her child. The connection grew blurry, filled with static and wind. "I'm coming." Maggie announced.
OA rubbed his forehead, trying to summon the resolve to tell her that it was necessary, and he was fine. He said nothing.
Maggie chattered the entire way over. She described the pedestrians, the state of the traffic. Her ever-present craving or ice cream. It was a strange sort of white noise that reeling him back from those nightmarish days in Kandahar, tethering him to reality.
Only Maggie Bell would check on a panicked friend by breaching the door and splintering the frame. He wouldn't have been surprised to see her gun at the ready.
"Jesus, OA. Are you okay?"
How pathetic he must have looked, a West Point graduate, war veteran and FBI Agent huddled in a blanket, half dressed and panicking to the point of near tears. Her eyes never once lowered to his chest smeared with bruises that had slithered beyond the bandages. It galvanized him to try to stand from his crumpled position on the floor and sidestep the question. "You didn't have to come all the way over here. Caught me coming down from a weird dream." Thank you.
"I didn't sleep well either," she shrugged. She didn't probe about the dream was about. After their talk a month ago, she could probably suss it out. Maggie pushed him back down, joining him on the floor, pulling the blanket over his trembling shoulders.
"Sorry," OA managed.
Maggie folded a bottle of water in his hand, and OA drank gratefully. "I kept thinking how I was second away from killing a kid. I didn't even try to look for other options, but you did."
"Kinda regretting that now." He winced.
"I didn't mean to lay into you like that…I was just…"
Fear forgotten, OA pinned her with a loaded gaze. "Scared of what your world would be without me?" Compelled by grief.
"Horrified by all that paperwork I'd have to do. Breakin' in a new partner isn't easy," Maggie joked lightly but her expression was just as loaded. I can't lose anyone else.
"All right, tough guy, couch or bed?"
OA groaned at the concept of movement. "Bathroom," he amended.
Between Maggie's determination and OA's pride, they managed to get him on his feet without too much screaming. He relied on auto-pilot to shower without thinking or feeling too deeply. He gingerly dressed and slipped into the soft fleece hoodie hanging on the bathroom door. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Maggie was still there. The mess on the floor had been cleaned up and she'd lifted up a bag from the bodega down the street. "Double cheese, no bacon, right?"
"Yes, thanks so much. I haven't eaten since yesterday."
The partners sat on the couch, watching TV and engaging in easy loose conversation as a new day began. The call had been too closely, dredging up ghosts and traumas of the past. It probably wouldn't be the last time for either of them. But as soldiers and special agents, they didn't have the luxury of being haunted or walking the infinite journey of grief. They had a job to do and a city to protect, so they chose to find a delicate comfort in the present. In egg sandwiches, a bit of rain, and bonding as friends.