(Hey folks! I hope this finds everyone well, as I haven't posted anything new for a while. I have been bummed over Angell's death, and what I'm sure it will do to Don, all summer and trying to work up this one-shot reaction to it. I really meant to get this posted before the season premiere yesterday, but it didn't happen. I still like how it ended up though, so I'm posting it anyway, regardless of the fact that they didn't really deal much with Flack's grief in the episode. It's sad, but I hope it's still a worthwhile read for someone. As always, I don't own them, though boy if I did I'd love the chance to try to help heal Flack's broken heart…)
Dress Blues
Donald Flack Jr. had always been proud to be part of the New York City Police Department. He had wanted to live up to the family name; he'd been thrilled when he made detective and found his own niche in the force; he'd lived to protect and serve the city he loved; he'd always taken pride in his appearance, but especially when occasion called for wearing the uniform dress blues.
This time was different. This time he dreaded every moment of getting ready, of fastening all those shiny brass buttons, of dabbing on cologne, of putting on the hat, and turning to peruse the final product in the mirror. It looked as sharp as ever, more so in fact, for this time everything had to be perfect. Nothing could be a bit out of place. He owed that to her.
The only thing different was the occasion. The joy, pride, and honor of his formal attire had been drained from the apparel by the fact that he was wearing it to a fallen comrade's funeral. And not just any comrade…his partner's…hers. She'd had his back in chases, questioned perps as 'good cop' to his 'bad cop,' sat beside him in a squad car for hours and hours on a stakeout, and been the person he could go for an Irish coffee with and share thousands of words with after hours. And she'd been becoming his partner in an even deeper sense of the word. She was the one he could speak emotionally to, who made his blood fire; the only one who had seen the scar disfiguring most of his torso and made it seem like a sexy badge of honor instead of a horrifyingly disgusting turn-off, and surprised him with her giving, caring, beautiful spirit.
On that morning three days ago – her last morning, the last time he'd talked to her – she had called to brighten his day; to make him smile. She had stopped at a diner while transporting Connor Dunbrook for trial and had had him wishing it was already evening in thirty seconds, telling him about the new black lace lingerie she was going to show him. Then there had been a crash and shots, and he had been left holding the line with her gone. He'd never gotten to talk to her again.
Jessica Angell. His firecracker, tough-as-nails and then soft-as-velvet Girl Friday. When he'd gotten to her after that heart-stopping phone call, she'd been lying like a broken doll in a pool of her own blood and shattered glass – weakened and quiet, both things that had never described her before. His deep voice calling her name, hoarse and desperate with fear that she was already gone, brought only a fluttering of her thick, dark lashes and a soft attempted smile.
Now, as he stood before the mirror, looking at a frozen man with a single tear that he couldn't feel trekking down his cheek, Don saw the whole thing in flashes of yelling – screaming – for the ambulance and his inept, fumbling hands trying to hold in the blood flowing from her lovely, precious body. He couldn't help wondering and tormenting himself with questions: 'What if he had gotten to her sooner?,' 'What if she hadn't been on the phone with him? Would she have been able to avoid that fatal bullet?,' 'What if he had put her in a taxi sooner? Gotten her to the ER that few minutes earlier?,' and 'What would he ever do without her now that he'd grown to love having her near?' The precinct would look empty in the midst of all those people if she would never walk towards his desk with that certain swing of her hips and her saucy smile again.
Don finished knotting his tie and went to grab his wallet, keys, and cell, dreading every step as his feet turned to lead, not wanting to reach the service and have it all be made real. If it weren't for Jess' family, he wouldn't go. He would go to see her later, when the crowd had left and he didn't have to pretend to be strong. He sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, buried shaking hands in his hair, and forced three long, deep, calming breaths. Then, he straightened, steeling himself, and almost reflexively felt for the small velvet box he'd been carrying in his pocket since that awful day. The box he had planned to give her that night, that he held onto now like a last trace of her, for strength. The wine and the black lace she'd had planned for him would have been an ecstatic follow-up to his surprise proposal.
As he left his bedroom, the doorbell rang, and he forced on a false face of strength. Whoever from Mac's team was coming to go with him to the funeral, to see that he was okay and keeping it together, whichever one of his friends it was, didn't need to see that their effort was in vain. When she'd died, he'd fallen to pieces inside, pieces that would never be together again, and those pieces had crumbled to dust when he'd seen the shell that was left of her – the body that would never be his Jess again – in the hospital morgue. It was only his trust in Sid, and the man's grave understanding words to him, that had allowed him to leave even what was left of her alone to the fate that he knew only too well awaited all corpses – no matter who they were – when they had to be investigated as victims of a homicide. There were some things that couldn't be forgotten; some instances where a person would never be okay after they happened.
When the door swung open to reveal Stella Bonasera's fine-boned face, hair that always spiralled wildly mostly pulled up and back, and deep, compassionate eyes, Don wasn't surprised. He knew the many things she'd been through in her life, and could see the sadness and understanding for him in those endless eyes of hers. He might have expected it would be Stella who'd turn up on his doorstep to support him in this. They were close; he'd do anything for her and she knew it. She was the same way – fierce as a true lioness if anyone hurt or attacked her friends , her team, the family she'd made for herself. They'd once worked nearly all their crime scenes together, questioned perps together; one playing off of the other effortlessly.
"Are you ready?" she asked quietly, gazing at him intently as if scruntinizing him to see below the surface.
"Can anyone be ready for something like this?" he asked, his voice gravelly with an unexpected surge of emotion. He tamped it down savagely, reminding himself that he'd have to be a stone – silent – if he wasn't going to break down in front of her. Sighing in defeat, he added, "Yeah, just let me get my gun and badge."
Stella merely nodded and stood silently in the entryway, giving him his moment to regroup and get those emotions under control without comment, understanding all too well his need to be strong. When he returned, she merely gave him a nod, and they slipped out the door together, pausing only while Don locked it behind them. She allowed him blessed quiet and her silent support all the way to the car and halfway through the ride, until finally – her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel – she spared a glance from the road to him and said only, "I know you're holding together by denying any weakness. Believe me, I've relied on that trick more times than I can count. But Don, know that you can talk to me – to any of us – if you need to. Angell wouldn't have wanted you to cut yourself off, to be alone, because of her. Hang in there, okay?"
He merely nodded, and Stella said no more, but the silence in the car was suddenly lightened. They both were a little more at peace with their thoughts, and it felt to Flack as though Jess' presence was there in the car with them and agreed with Stella's words. 'Alright, Jess, I'll try,' he thought to himself.
The service was as honored and reverent as any he had ever seen; every officer who'd ever worked with Jess, or her father before her, seemed to be there to pay their respects. Don knew her family must appreciate the show of loyalty, the recognition of what a good woman – and a good cop – she had been. But he also knew that they had to feel, like he did, that none of it really mattered without her here; no amount of recognition or tribute was enough to bring her back.
As the twenty-one gun salute sounded, Don flinched slightly, having been lost in his own thoughts of her again. He felt Lindsey's small hand bearing Danny's wedding ring slip comfortingly into his and squeeze reassuringly on one side, while he felt Stella on his other side place her hand on his back bracingly. He couldn't seem to make himself look at Mac when he realized there had been a silent tear running unnoticed down his face that he only felt when it stung along his raw, freshly-shaven jawline. He did glance briefly to Lindsey's other side, seeing Danny brush a bit of moisture from his own eye behind his glasses. Inexplicably, it made Don feel a little better. They had all loved her right along with him.
It came time for his part of the service, and as he took the folded flag to her father, stood before him smartly, handed it over, and looked into the older man's eyes, he was very nearly undone. The senior Detective Angell had been a legend to Flack since he'd joined the force, but he had also begun to see him as a mentor and future father. That strong, solid older gentleman looked ready to crumble; they were about to bury his little girl, his baby, and nothing would make it right. All Don could do was nod to him, sharing his pain, and clasp his hand for a moment as he gave him the flag, then returned to his seat.
The service continued, drawing to a close almost before Flack realized it. As the words and music ceased and people finished their silent, somber processional past Jess' casket, Don realized that he was frozen to the spot. He couldn't move to walk up and see her one last time – knowing her face would be cold and motionless in death. Nor could he move to turn and walk away as others all around him were beginning to do. Finally, as footsteps, lowered voices, and other signs of the crowd around him slipped away, he realized that even those closest to him were going to leave.
Lindsey's hand slipped from his, where he'd grasped it ever since she had placed it there nearly an hour ago. She tilted her head back to look up at his face and asked him if he was going to be alright.
He managed a short, curt nod of assent, but blinked rapidly and didn't meet her gaze. She gave him a brief hug and continued to watch him worriedly. "Don?" she asked softly. "Are you sure you don't want to come home with Danny and I for a little while? Have some company?"
But he shook his head, and Danny stepped forward, clearly understanding that his buddy couldn't respond and couldn't bear to be around another couple right now. They still had each other; had the chance to be together. Don just needed more time and space to grieve in his own way, alone. Danny wrapped an arm around Lindsey, laid a hand on Don's shoulder for a moment in a clasp of brotherly support, and then steered himself and his new wife slowly back toward their vehicle.
Don knew Stella was still there; he could feel her presence at his side. Once again she understood not to speak, and he loved her for it. She laid her cheek against his shoulder, still lightly rubbing her hand gently, in a soft, soothing rhythm, over his back. Rather than asking how he was, making him talk, or filling the air with chatter he couldn't comprehend, she just let him know she was there; that's she'd loved Jess too and that she hurt for him, wished she could take that pain away.
He suddenly was almost embarrassed to feel himself leaning into her embrace, needing her support as he hugged her lean, lanky form to him tightly. A ragged, deep sob wrenched its way from his chest, only the one escaping but wracking them both with its strength. As quickly as he'd pulled Stella to him, Don wrenched himself away, turning his face from her searching eyes so she couldn't see the silent tears coursing down his strong cheeks. "Stella – I – I can't – I'm sorry – just – I have to walk for a minute."
He was retreating, near panicked in his urgent need to get away, before she could get out her answer. "Okay, but Don, I'll call you later…make sure you get home alright." She hoped he had heard her anyway. Watching his tall form moving quickly through the row of gravestones off to the side toward a stand of trees at the edge of the cemetery, she stepped up to the casket, laid a hand on its cool surface, letting her fingers rest just beside the spray of yellow roses covering it. She spoke softly to the young woman resting inside, one she'd come to consider a friend. "You're going to have to help us out here, Angell. I've never seen him like this…I don't know what Don's going to do without you…"
It was late that night when Don Flack finally returned to his empty apartment. The dark streets were now slick with rain that had begun falling not long after he'd left Jess' service; the lights of cabs and cars and street lamps blurrily piercing the blackness as he had walked aimlessly for hours – soaked to the skin and feeling the damp chill leeching ever deeper, into his soul. Though he hadn't wanted to come home and face the silence and his thoughts, it had finally become clear that there was nowhere else for him to go.
He'd already found himself back at Jess' gravesite hours later, when he could be alone with what he had left of her. There was a mound of freshly turned earth, quickly turning into mud, and he had sunk to his knees in the muck, oblivious to how he was ruining the crisp blue uniform he'd always taken such pride in.
"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner," he'd whispered to her, or the wind, or maybe himself. "I couldn't save you, and – and now – you're gone. It hurts so bad, Jess. Can't you come back and forgive me? I did everything I could…"
His voice had trailed off and his head bowed to nearly touch the ground, as sobs finally overcame him – alone in the dark and the storm where no one else could see. As pathetic as he knew it was, as disgusted at himself as he was for this show of weakness, he couldn't bring himself to get up off his knees again. He had no real intention to leave her here, whether his father, or Mac, or anyone else who'd be too strong for this sort of display or worried about him torturing himself over her loss would disapprove or not.
But then he had felt one small patch of warmth amidst the wet and the chill. It first ghosted across his cheek light and soothing and then gripped at his arm, like the after-impression of her small, but strong, hand. Pulling him to safety, just like the time she'd yanked him out of the way of that careening taxi which had nearly mowed him down, except this time she was saving him from himself. If he tried, he could almost hear her rich, smoky laugh as she would have mocked him in life. "My partner doesn't even have the sense to come in out of the rain," she'd joke, teasing with that sensual uptilt of her perfect, full lips, her waves of brown hair shimmering as they moved over her shoulders when she shook her head at him. For that brief moment, he smiled at the vision of her alive and well and acting as she always had. It had given him the strength to get back on his feet and walk home, knowing what an idiot she'd think he was being and that she wouldn't want him doing this to himself.
Don's mind came back to the present and the awareness that he stood dripping water onto the hardwood floor of his entryway/living room obliviously. It wasn't until a body-wracking shiver rattled his whole frame that he snapped out of his daze and moved toward the bathroom for a hot shower, in hopes of recovering the warmth he'd had for a moment when it had seemed he'd felt her hand. He stood shivering on the linoleum floor, stripping off first his jacket, then his pants, then his soaked dress shirt, undershirt, and boxer-briefs, letting them all fall heedlessly into a soggy pile on the floor.
Vaguely he wondered, as he stepped under the shower's spray turned up hot enough to scald and with enough pressure to beat against his skin and hopefully bring his senses back to life, if he'd ever get the outfit clean. Then he gave the thought up completely, knowing he would never wear those particular dress blues again. Instead, he let the water pelt his skin and his emotions roll freely, hoping all the tears would run dry now when they could be washed away unseen, even though he knew they might never leave him. He wished that her memory would follow him into this tiled, private sanctuary for his grief and that, feeling the echo of her presence, he might someday be warm again.