DISCLAIMER: please don't sue me, just playing around with the characters and boredom. Alcatraz belongs to FOX, the creators, writers, producers, and hell, even the actors.
This is my first Alcatraz fic! I was playing with a scene where Lucy finds out about Emerson getting hurt and stuff and it turned into this…which I wasn't going for but hey, I couldn't control it haha. Hope you enjoy it!
"I figured you'd be here."
Because, honestly, where else would he be? Hauser turns to see Lucy, dressed in black, leaning up against the doorframe and gives her a small shrug. The Observation Room is dark except for the screens that show various clips, live feed, and security footage. He's been sitting in here, watching the manic Mr. K, for two hours. It's not the longest he's kept someone waiting in interrogation and he figures his reluctance to enter that room has, largely, to do with the fact that he wants to shoot someone.
Which she would not approve of.
"How was the funeral?" Little surprises him about how graveled he sounds. He clears his voice and stands to lean against the desk, facing her. Emerson's never liked sitting down for any kind of news. Good or bad, it makes him feel vulnerable. He was standing (searching really) the night everyone disappeared and he was standing when they started to come back. Being on his feet has always appealed to him after the 63's vanished, made him feel prepared or that he could leap into action.
"Touching." She says and comes a little further into the room. Her hands are clasped in front of her, clutching a small bag. "There was quite a crowd gathered." They both expected as much. Rebecca had been well-liked by most of the people she worked with, it made sense that the department had a big turnout. "You could have come, you know." The statement alone tells him she's not happy with his choice to stay behind. Emerson has to wonder what choices have made her happy…if any at all. He turns away from her, palms bracing him against the desk, to stare at the screens again, only his eyes keep falling on the image of Cobb.
He's watched the damned tape more than a dozen times, listened to the bastard label her a target, and every time he's overwhelmed with both fury and helplessness. They are two combinations, when he was sitting by her bedside hoping, praying that she would find her way back to him, that he swore to never feel again. How easy it was to fall victim to being human; of caring too much and too easily.
"Then they'll be here soon?" She doesn't answer him, and he thinks that maybe it's because he already suspects the answer is yes. This isn't where she wanted the conversation to go. He knows because she sighs and steps up next to him to lean against the desk in the same manner he had just a few seconds ago. He can feel her eyes on him; can feel them tracing the lines on his face. It makes him squirm whether he wants to admit or not.
If he were younger, if he were the same person he had been, he would have blushed. But that person was left somewhere in a meaningless history spanning the past forty-some years. Something between them didn't feel right and Hauser blames himself for naively believing that it would have gone back to normal when she returned. Things could never be the same, and that was the damned problem. Their conversations stopped and danced around topics, shied away from what was important, and dodged the bullet of actually having to 'bring it up'. She had said they would do this together, his life's work.
"I'm going to ask you a question." She says, her eyes trying to meet his through the glare from the screens. "I would like it if you answered me." Her hand strays from her lap and gently brushes against his own. His eyes immediately fall to their fingers and he imagines a time where this simple touch would have dashed a thousand butterflies through his stomach. He can't help that his breath catches in his chest. But he knows that tone she's using. He's heard it in the dozens of times he's watched the videos in front of him and it's almost painful.
"Don't do that." He grumbles, stepping away to fold his arms across his chest, hiding his hand away like it's been burned. "Don't use that doctor-patient voice. Not on me." He feels momentarily betrayed and does his best to ignore the tremble in her lower lip. But that fleeting sign of her hurt is gone before he can try to take anything back.
"How should I talk to you then, Emerson?" She asks, just the barest hint of exasperation in her voice. "Should I happily ask you about Aristotle? Should I go on about the moon, or of weddings and fancy things?" She looks more severe by the second, using an arm to wave about the space between them. "Music?" He has to look down at that one, has to close his eyes against the shame and longing she might find in them. The only problem is the image of kissing her that hides in the corner of his mind, readily trapping him in a simpler and happier moment.
"What did you want to ask me?" Deflecting. He's becoming increasingly good at the art, but only because he hates talking about what might have been and knowing it never was or never can be.
"Dr. Beauregard asked how you were the night I woke up." He looks up and she's frowning in concern. Their eyes meet. "Why?" It's nothing, is the first answer that comes to mind along with a few lies that might get him out of the room. He hopes she can't see the surprise - because panic is such an uncontrollable thing to admit to - on his face. He's desperately praying that his cell phone would ring. It doesn't.
"I pulled something when we apprehended Porter." It wasn't the entire truth, but it might satisfy her. It works as much as his praying for his phone to ring.
"Something?" There's a moment when their silence seems to say more than any of their attempts at normal conversation. Hauser stares at her, frowns, and then sighs when it hits him.
"If you know, why ask?" He tries to smile, but it turns into a bemused smirk instead. Nothing, at all, what he was aiming for.
"I want you to trust me." She practically yells, even though her voice is just a little higher than normal. Lucy doesn't really yell per say. "I want you to tell me when you're hurt, when you aren't sleeping, when you're recovering from a bullet wound." He can't help it, he actually winces. Maybe he's not so good at hiding things from her. She's crossing to him before he knows it and he fights the urge to retreat. She stops when they're close, too close, and it leaves his sanity clutching at the frayed ends of his resolve. Instead of backing away, he leans towards her, down at her, and tries to reign in his frustration.
"You don't need to be worrying about -"
He stops, not because she's said anything to silence him. Not because she's given him one of those looks he's been so accustomed to receiving since she woke up. But because she's gently sliding her hand up his chest until it rests over his heart. Hauser can feel it hammering against the weight of her. He stares, swallows, confused by this turn of events; torn between kissing her and pushing her away.
"I know Emerson. I know." Tears spring to her eyes, but they don't spill over. They pool there like desperate little things on the brink of committing suicide down her cheeks. He hopes they don't. He wouldn't be able to handle her crying. Emerson remembers the nights he laid awake after it happened, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to walk through the door. He wonders, bitterly, if she truly understands why he does everything; that all this had really been about protecting her. A small part of him acknowledges that he also wants revenge, answers, maybe the chance to undo it all and start over. They're stupid hopefuls, but he's stopped believing in the impossible. He can only bring himself to nod, not trusting his voice or his words at the moment, and she slips her arms around him.
Hesitantly, he pulls her closer, engulfing her in an embrace that speaks both of his desperate need to protect her and the desire to stay like this forever. His head leans against hers, nose buried in her hair as he inhales her familiarity; she's adopted a new hairspray, a newer perfume, still has the faintest scent of hospital on her scalp, but she's still Lucy. He finds that the room seems to have lost the correct amount of oxygen and wonders if he can trust the constancy of this moment. This was real, wasn't it?
"Finally." Rebecca Madsen's voice makes them jump. Lucy tries to pull away but Emerson tightens his grip. They turn a little, sway in order see the blonde leaning up against the doorframe. He can feel Lucy's lips curve into a smile against his arm. A knowing smirk is plastered all over Rebecca's face.
Hauser scowls at her, relinquishes his grip just enough to wave Madsen away. Kid was always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although, Lucy would counter that she was in the right place at the right time as well. Whatever. "Out." He commands, and watches Madsen hold up her hands like he's pointing a gun at her before she backs out of sight. He might as well be.
"You told her." He mumbles, as close to a complaint as he's going to get.
"She's very observant." Lucy answers, leaning away enough to look up into his face with a smile.
"Still." He says frowning, his eyes lingering at the space Madsen had occupied a few moments ago.
That means Soto knows. Which was bad. Really bad. The two of them knowing, with their smart mouths, together…Maybe he could re-assign one of them.
Woooh done. I just wasn't satisfied with the ending of the season finale and I needed something to do on a Saturday haha. Let me know what you think. I am not sure if I'm going to make this a multi-chapter fic yet. I'm playing with a few ideas to get me through the summer, so if I post them, you'll know ;D I know my track record isn't great with keeping up on my stories, but I usually take myself where the muse goes. Apologies if you're waiting on other chapters for other stories! I will try to get to them if I am satisfied with what I write. You guys know how it is, being fellow writers and all. Anyway, thanks for reading!