A/N: Okay, I thought I'd finished with these two. Seems not, after all. This follows on directly from "Thoughts at 2 am". Blacktop, consider this one as yours, after that lovely review you posted! :-)
He was at his desk trying to block out the pounding in his head and concentrate on his emails when she appeared at his side. Obviously on her way in, a big satchel slung over her shoulder.
"Detective? Would you step into my office in five minutes, please?"
He nodded, wincing slightly at what the movement did to his head, and tracked the progress of her slim figure out of the corner of his eye as she threaded her way between desks and out the door. Thank God Lionel wasn't in yet.
He gave it eight minutes, then strolled as nonchalantly as he could from the busy bullpen and made his way down the corridor to her office. She was still setting up for her day, standing behind her desk pulling papers from her satchel and arranging them in neat piles. He closed the door behind himself and turned to face her.
"You look wrecked," she said before he could speak. "You crawled into a bottle last night, right?"
He nodded wordlessly again.
"Here." She was rummaging in a drawer. Finding what she wanted, she tossed him a packet of Tylenol and turned to the satchel. A water bottle: she stood and held it out to him. "Take a big drink. You'll need to re-hydrate."
He walked over to reach across the desk and take it from her. "I know how to deal with a hangover, Iris."
"Not the best coping mechanism, John," she said, completely ignoring this. "Promise me you won't do that again."
"Okay." He studied her, taking in her pallor and bloodshot eyes. "You don't look so good either. Looks like you didn't sleep a wink."
"Yeah, that's pretty close."
"You're worried."
"Well, yes. Plus Idiot Cat decided he was going to sleep on my chest and wouldn't stop purring. Every time he stopped, if I moved he'd start up again."
He smiled slightly at this image. "You really call your cat Idiot Cat? That's his name?"
"Only when I'm annoyed with him. But he's very perceptive. He knows if I'm upset."
"And you're upset now? About us?"
"I'm still not even sure there should be an 'us'. John, we've got a whole precinct out there full of trained observers with naturally suspicious minds. There's no way in hell we can keep this secret."
He gave himself a moment, popping two Tylenol and washing them down with a big pull of the water.
"You're right." He passed the bottle back to her.
"Yes, I am." She was careful not to touch him as she took it.
"I don't care."
The silence which followed this was so loud it hurt his ears.
"I don't know where you were when the Towers came down," she said softly. "I was across town, gearing up for my first semester of med school. And like everyone else I sat in front of my TV all day, and watched every last moment of the whole awful thing. And there's one image which stuck in my mind, the most horrible thing I saw in that whole horrible day. It still comes back to me sometimes, in the middle of the night."
He waited for her to continue.
"Before the first tower collapsed, do you remember, people were jumping out of the building. And there was this one image: a man and a woman, jumping hand in hand."
He waited, wordlessly.
"If we do this, John, if we keep on this path – that's us. Make no mistake."
Again the silence stretched.
"I was in Mexico that day. With the love of my life," he said abruptly. "Least, that's what I thought at the time. I was going to leave the Army, but after 9/11 I reupped instead. Walked away from her. And I lost her. Threw her away. I'm not doing that again."
"I'm not the love of your life, John. You're most likely transferring emotions. As your therapist-"
"But you're not my therapist any more. You handed me on to that other guy." He took a big breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And how the hell do you know what my emotions are? Look, maybe you're right. Maybe this is all just an illusion, but, but..." He stumbled to a halt.
"If you can't have the reality you'll settle for an illusion?" She was smiling sadly.
He spread his hands helplessly.
She stood there, clasping the water bottle to her chest. He tried again. "It might be an illusion. But maybe it's not. And I'm tired of doing the right thing, the safe thing. Pulling away to keep people, keep myself, safe."
The faintest of sighs escaped her. He saw her nod: an almost imperceptible movement. She put the bottle down and pulled out a pen, writing rapidly on a slip of paper. "Here's my address. And my number. Don't store it in your phone. We can't ever meet here at the precinct. In fact we've been in here far too long already. I'll see you tonight after work." She pushed the paper towards him.
"Don't worry, I'll eat this after reading it," he said, picking it up.
She twitched him a smile. "This is a very bad idea. But I'm tired of doing the right thing, too."
"Right. Wrong. The line between them's a lot more blurred than you might think, Iris."
She acknowledged this with another tiny nod. "You'd better get out there, John."
He reached out and touched her cheek, then turned and left the room.