Monica flicks the lighter off, shoves it in her pocket, takes a deep breath. Cigarettes have become her haven, something she detests even as she reaches for them every day.
Covered by the opressive darkness of the night, she seats herself down on the steps. She's been fighting the moment of going home, because she knows the tears will come.
Knows it as surely as she knows the back of her hand, as surely as she has John's phone number memorized, as surely as she knows the milk has gone sour in her fridge. The knowledge doesn't help.
It isn't fair. And she's sick of all the bull-shit about life not being fair. Yes, she gets it. But never once has she accepted that at face value. There had to be something more, something worth living for.
She isn't content and happy to just be a part of the human race. She isn't grateful to just be breathing. She has a personality that is stubborn and pushy and won't let her rest for too long before bounding up and doing something.
But she's wearing down. She'd have expected this slight emotional barrier break to have happened when she was younger, but not now. Maybe back when she was less jaded, knew better than to expect great things from a souring world.
But it just wasn't fair. John had had to lose his son all over again, all in the process of a few splintered moments in time. His memories gone, then returned, and for what? For a grieving father to finally be broken? For her to be?
It hurt her deeply to see him in pain. She'd been there, she'd seen the middle, she'd seen the aftermath. But she'd never had the beginning to look back on. Maybe that's what stabalized him. Maybe that's why *he* wasn't the one on *her* steps, smoking with trembling fingers and cursing the sky.
When he'd asked her that one question, how old his son was, she'd frozen. She hadn't been taken by surprise like that since her training days at Quantico. Even the guerillas had vanished from her mind for the moment. She felt the reply, the icy, stark words crystalize in her throat, could feel them sliding down, congealing in the pit of her stomach.
She'd had to take away his son that day they'd found Luke. She'd found him, but in finding him she'd also found his worst nightmare in vivid reality. That he didn't hate her at all was stunning, because she could barely look at herself in the mirror. She understood, or thinks she understands, now. But…
But how could she stand to wrench his son away again? When he'd remembered, it had taken all of her willpower not to break down with him. But she'd felt the mess in her stomach turn to solid fire. Pushing her to save the father, even as she couldn't have saved the son. Maybe, somehow that act would be some slight act of victory over the evil that had taken his son.
But now they'd been back for several days, and her mood had gotten progressively darker. Her eternal optimism spring was running dry, and it was becoming noticeable. John had invited her over tonight, something she found almost laughable. That he would be the one consoling her was not right, and she wouldn't allow her own issues to permeate his existence.
She'd steadfastly attempted to keep up her charade. But sitting out on the cold concrete, she felt deflated, empty. Like she'd been reaching out to catch a butterfly in air, but when she opened her closed hand it was empty. Like she'd been denied something. His grief, maybe? A chance to grieve together?
Her cell phone shrieked in the confines of her pocket, and she freed it. Composing her voice, she answered.
"Mon, look. I can't sleep. If you wanna, uh, you can come back. Y'know…ah, hell, this is stupid. Sorry for--"
She cleared her throat and interrupted. "I'll be right there." Clicking the cell off, she took one last drag from her cigarette. Stamping it out, she rose.
Maybe…maybe things that happened in life did have a reason. And maybe it wasn't the reason that gave you peace. Maybe it was the people you could share it with. Maybe they could help you be set free.
Maybe.