Disclaimer: I claim no credit, I earn nothing but the satisfaction of tying up a storyline the official writer left hanging for no good reason.
And yes, I'm starting another WIP. I will finish the other two, I promise. It will take awhile, but they will get done. If I don't finish things they bounce around my brain and torment me.
Dedicated to skyfare, who is even more pissed off about the unresolved Donny storyline than I am.
He was halfway down the block before he realized that he had forgotten his coat. He paused on the sidewalk.
Go back…?
But the sun was warm on his skin.
The breeze was light as silk, and worlds away from harsh fluorescent lights and recycled air.
It urged him to forget, for a little while at least.
Bobby began to walk again, and turned left at the corner.
Several seconds later, a man with a gun followed him.
xxxxx
It did not take long to pack up her desk and locker. Not even half as long as it had taken to quit her job, and the Chief had only put up a desultory fight.
Part of her had enjoyed making him squirm as he tried to encourage her to stay without actually encouraging her. But not enough to talk to him a second longer than she had to.
Also saving time was the fact that no one interrupted her, the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her jaw clearly broadcasting "do not fuck with me" on all frequencies. She kept her eyes focused on her task. Packed it all up, his stuff too, partly to save him the trip and partly because leaving anything of his felt too much like leaving him behind.
A couple framed pictures. Books. His binder and coat. Her Advil. Pebbles, pennies, paperclips.
It was really fucking tragic that it all fit in one box.
xxxxx
Half an hour after deciding that scraping her stickers off her locker was pointless (and she secretly liked the idea that she'd leave something of hers behind, the idea that you couldn't scour Alex Eames out of MCS if you tried), she found herself standing before Bobby's door, contemplating pressing the doorbell yet again. She hadn't seen his car, but he'd been talking about selling it.
She shifted her weight to another hip, her arms starting to hurt from holding almost a decade of history in a single cardboard box. She was about decide to fuck it all and come back another time when Bobby wasn't playing hide-and-go-seek or drown-your-sorrows-at-the-nearest-bar, when she saw them.
Scratches around the keyhole.
Those hadn't been there last time.
Eames set down the box, reached automatically for the gun on her hip before remembering that it wasn't there. She cursed under her breath, and bent down to take her piece—her own, not the department's—out of her ankle holster, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
She turned the handle swiftly and it gave, the door opening, and she ducked out of the potential line of fire as she entered, her eyes and the end of her revolver drawing a bead on the figure in the shadows at the opposite end of the room—male, lanky, adolescent. "Freeze!"
"Detective Eames?" He stepped into the light, hands up.
Donny Carlson.
She let out a long, slow breath. Lowered the gun.
"You are so damn lucky I quit the force today."