Disclaimer: Not mine! We'd have another season otherwise and the "Kiss me not conclusion" would not have seemed so choppy. (that's what happens when you're trying to end things on a hurry)

Running.

Somehow I find myself sitting alone in the hospital's waiting room; it does not surprise me: I've expended years in getting it through Jill's and Claire's thick skulls, and submitted Cindy to a Crash Course on 'How to give Lindsay Boxer her space' for the last four to five and a half months. After so much trying it seems I finally succeeded.

I find it amazing how Pete managed to size me up in just the time we had; two weeks! I always though I was more complicated than that. Yet, he was right, I was running all along.

I just hope he didn't know what from.

I'm a coward, Claire knows this, accepts it, she almost understands it. She's the only one. Still, she has no idea. She wasn't there, she didn't hear it; and I bet she would have eaten her own right foot for a chance to witness it.

As fate would have it, I was given an excuse that very night. I had opened my eyes, I might have even opened my heart then too… however, Agent Ash happened and I dove for the chance to hide, to push, to keep at arms length.

I hadn't even realized just how successful I'd been! Well, not until that day by the coffee cart, 'Go talk to him, and while you're at it, forget about Tom', yeah, right! 'forget about Tom', 'forget about Tom', 'forget about Tom!', even now I can almost hear the whiny voice inside my head repeat over and over just like that day. 'Forget about Tom My Ass!' I wanted to scream, and thinking it over I just might have, hadn't Jill been there. Still I was a bitch to Cindy that day, even Jill was weird-ed out, yet no one got it for the retaliation it was, no one saw me: hurt, a gapping open, bloody wound right in the center of my chest. Cindy sure should write a book, 'How to break Lindsay Boxer's heart in fifteen words or less.'

But, really, how did it all began? I've found myself wondering that more than once.

It didn't start with a kiss or some majestic, heroic gesture like (wince) stepping in the path of a bullet. I would have to pin it on words, starting and ending on words. Perhaps it did have something of the 'facing the dragon to save the damsel in distress' cliché; only this was one schizophrenic damsel who was also her very own fire breathing dragon… I am realistic, I know my own defects and I'm not about to start lying to myself.

At least not in that respect.

Her yelling at me, getting me out of the numb state I reversed to on hearing that fragment of Tom's wedding ceremony, that's what did it. I might have been over Tom by then or not, I'm not even sure myself anymore- what with all my denials that started being true at some unknown point-, it was still failure as far as I was concerned. And I almost, almost ended that night with a smile on my face, a (Shudder) dreamy smile on my face. Ja!

Like that was gonna happen! No Sir! Not me, hell no.

'I'm just not a make-the-first-move kinda gal', at least that was truth; when I'm really interested you wouldn't force me with a gun to my head. When I'm running for the hills, on the other hand, it's much too easy; running away seems to be something of a personal credo lately. Apparently, not even Cindy getting shot in the chest, me facing my demon of the last five years and/or my father agonizing can make me renounce it.

And now here I sit; alone in a hospital's waiting room, hopping for some news on my father's condition, my best friends in the world at not less than 20 minutes away. The resolve to hide behind a 'long distance' relationship with no future whatsoever (I know it, the girls know it, and I, my knuckleheaded pretty self, am still going to milk it for all of its pathetic worth) is the only thing stopping me from fishing out my cellphone and calling Cindy here; 'That's half the fun', I can't get the look she gave me out of my head, 'half the fun', getting on a potentially monumental mess on my behalf is half the fun to her, I get weepy just thinking about it, I almost jumped her right then and there, in the middle of the bullpen, in front of everybody, their uncles and Jill!

Damn It! I don't want a deep, meaningful fucking relationship!! I'm just over fucking Tom!! I don't need this shit!! I don't think I could handle it just now, it's too much. I feel like laughing in desperation and scream, 'I'm not fucking ready yet! I need some fucking recovery time! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it all to Hell!' maybe I should add some stomping around, really work out that frustration? Hmmm, that's something to think about.

With a sigh I stand up; I need to do something before my head burst, maybe get some crappy coffee from the cafeteria, take the stairs, stretch the legs even if it's my brain getting the cramps.

That's the only explanation for the startled, apologetic, yet determined look on the brown eyes of one disgruntled and uncomfortable looking redhead as I turn the corner in search of the emergency stairs.

I say as much.

"I couldn't leave, Lindsay. I told you you're not getting rid of me, soo, you better shut up and deal with it."

Despite myself; I smile.

Authoress Notes:

There's more "subtext" (and don't you just hate that word?) going around, if you're looking for it there's a heck of a lot more, I just couldn't fit it. Think about it, it strikes Lindsay's M.O. down to the boots!

As for this? This stays as it is; I don't have the head to squeeze anything more except for a personal comment, based in all of my Latin-American wisdom:

"Amor de lejos para pendejos."

"Love from afar is for the idiots."

Ta:

Nofret.