Title: Self Preservation
Author: Tracy
Rating: PG
Category: Angst . . . kind of.
Notes: I don't know where exactly this fic came from. It just popped up out of nowhere and began writing itself. I found the unfinished product on my hard drive today, and it began pestering me to finish it, so I did. It's very different from my usual offerings of fluffy sweetness. Folks, there is a reason why I don't write angst - it's because I tend to go over the top and end up sounding more like a bad Mills & Boon novel than anything else. I think I refrained here - barely, but I'm not sure I believe what I wrote. Maybe I should re-label it an AU/UST/Angst fic. Whatever. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please, drop me a line or two telling me what you though.
~x~
Another day, another crime scene. He arrives with his partner and instinctively knows that it's going to be bad. He glances at her before they enter the room and something passes between them. Most would see it as just a glance. Others would see it as a bolstering of their nerve, an 'okay, you ready? Let's do it,' kind of look. But the more perceptive would see the silent offering, acceptance and reciprocation of support; an understanding that no matter how bad things are in that room, they will be there for each other, after. It's not something that's easily put into words, nor is it something that is widely understood by anyone else. But it is something that they both need.
~x~
They enter the room. There are wilted flowers in an expensive crystal vase. A birthday gift, maybe. But the flowers, brought for whatever past occasion, are dying. He writes something in his notebook and stares at the lifeless woman before them. She talks to one of the uniforms, and then brings her eyes back to him, waiting.
~x~
He can sense her watching, but he ignores her. He busies himself with the body, poking and prodding and even sniffing, aware that this last action will probably divert her attention away from him. He is right – she grimaces and pulls out a side drawer, examining its contents while trying to shield what he is doing from the uniformed officers who secured the crime scene. She looks out for him, doesn't want his reputation tarnished because of his sometimes-unusual investigative methods, because that's what a good partner does. He'd do exactly the same for her. Not that he's ever had to, but he would, just the same.
~x~
He came to a rather surprising realisation a long time ago. A woman named Alex, an indomitable spirit, a coy smile, and he was gone. That he knows he's gone is without doubt. That he chooses to ignore it is, in his eyes, a technique of self-preservation. He loves her, he needs her, God knows he wants her, but he can't confront these feelings and leave himself wide open for rejection, so he chooses to ignore them. Sometimes, as a result, he ignores her. He knows it puzzles her, and on some level hurts, but he does it anyway. He's safer if he does the rejecting first. His childhood taught him that lesson well. That's just one of the many lies he tells himself. The truth is, although rejection is never pleasant, it's the unknown he fears the most.
~x~
He leaves the body alone and circles around the bed, glad that he's wearing a heavy coat. The room is cold. Somehow, no matter what the temperature is outside, the rooms are always cold. He's not the only one who feels it. She does, too. He notices these things about her – he notices everything about her – but what he notices most is how often they end up on the same wave length.
~x~
It's the loss of control over his own path that terrifies him. It's the fear of opening up and being seen. That is what makes him pull away when she gets too close. He's spent too long building up those barriers, invested too much time and effort in making sure they are impenetrable to allow her to chip away at it's foundation. All it would take is one crack . . . one little crack and the whole carefully constructed façade would come tumbling down. Then there would be only him, stripped naked and vulnerable, no layers, no gimmicks, just him. And she would see him for the scarred, tormented, shell of a man that he is. That is what keeps him up at night. That is what terrifies him. So he retreats to a safe place where she can't reach him and he can't hear her. From this place he watches. He watches, and he thinks, and he dreams, but he doesn't act.
~x~
There is blood spatter on the walls and brain matter on the sheets. There is the unmistakable stench of death in the claustrophobic bedroom. There is a grieving daughter, and her too calm husband. There is also a two and a half million dollar life insurance policy. And skin cells underneath her fingernails.
~x~
She offers him a wan smile as they wrap up yet another case of human depravity. Somehow, after these tough cases, she always tries to catch his eye to make sure that he's okay. He appreciates it, but it isn't necessary. He's not going to crack or break or fall apart just because someone's mother was killed. He can differentiate between his own situation and the crime at hand. He's not that fragile. But he likes that she cares enough to check, so he turns around and smiles back. It's a small smile, you wouldn't see it in any toothpaste commercials, but it's a silent acknowledgement between them that he's okay, she's okay, and they can both go home without worry.
Without a backward glance he turns and leaves the room, aware that her eyes are following him, and knowing that she cares for him more than she should. It's a small consolation that he holds tightly on those dark and empty nights.
He won't act though.
Because it's all about self-preservation.
End
Author: Tracy
Rating: PG
Category: Angst . . . kind of.
Notes: I don't know where exactly this fic came from. It just popped up out of nowhere and began writing itself. I found the unfinished product on my hard drive today, and it began pestering me to finish it, so I did. It's very different from my usual offerings of fluffy sweetness. Folks, there is a reason why I don't write angst - it's because I tend to go over the top and end up sounding more like a bad Mills & Boon novel than anything else. I think I refrained here - barely, but I'm not sure I believe what I wrote. Maybe I should re-label it an AU/UST/Angst fic. Whatever. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please, drop me a line or two telling me what you though.
~x~
Another day, another crime scene. He arrives with his partner and instinctively knows that it's going to be bad. He glances at her before they enter the room and something passes between them. Most would see it as just a glance. Others would see it as a bolstering of their nerve, an 'okay, you ready? Let's do it,' kind of look. But the more perceptive would see the silent offering, acceptance and reciprocation of support; an understanding that no matter how bad things are in that room, they will be there for each other, after. It's not something that's easily put into words, nor is it something that is widely understood by anyone else. But it is something that they both need.
~x~
They enter the room. There are wilted flowers in an expensive crystal vase. A birthday gift, maybe. But the flowers, brought for whatever past occasion, are dying. He writes something in his notebook and stares at the lifeless woman before them. She talks to one of the uniforms, and then brings her eyes back to him, waiting.
~x~
He can sense her watching, but he ignores her. He busies himself with the body, poking and prodding and even sniffing, aware that this last action will probably divert her attention away from him. He is right – she grimaces and pulls out a side drawer, examining its contents while trying to shield what he is doing from the uniformed officers who secured the crime scene. She looks out for him, doesn't want his reputation tarnished because of his sometimes-unusual investigative methods, because that's what a good partner does. He'd do exactly the same for her. Not that he's ever had to, but he would, just the same.
~x~
He came to a rather surprising realisation a long time ago. A woman named Alex, an indomitable spirit, a coy smile, and he was gone. That he knows he's gone is without doubt. That he chooses to ignore it is, in his eyes, a technique of self-preservation. He loves her, he needs her, God knows he wants her, but he can't confront these feelings and leave himself wide open for rejection, so he chooses to ignore them. Sometimes, as a result, he ignores her. He knows it puzzles her, and on some level hurts, but he does it anyway. He's safer if he does the rejecting first. His childhood taught him that lesson well. That's just one of the many lies he tells himself. The truth is, although rejection is never pleasant, it's the unknown he fears the most.
~x~
He leaves the body alone and circles around the bed, glad that he's wearing a heavy coat. The room is cold. Somehow, no matter what the temperature is outside, the rooms are always cold. He's not the only one who feels it. She does, too. He notices these things about her – he notices everything about her – but what he notices most is how often they end up on the same wave length.
~x~
It's the loss of control over his own path that terrifies him. It's the fear of opening up and being seen. That is what makes him pull away when she gets too close. He's spent too long building up those barriers, invested too much time and effort in making sure they are impenetrable to allow her to chip away at it's foundation. All it would take is one crack . . . one little crack and the whole carefully constructed façade would come tumbling down. Then there would be only him, stripped naked and vulnerable, no layers, no gimmicks, just him. And she would see him for the scarred, tormented, shell of a man that he is. That is what keeps him up at night. That is what terrifies him. So he retreats to a safe place where she can't reach him and he can't hear her. From this place he watches. He watches, and he thinks, and he dreams, but he doesn't act.
~x~
There is blood spatter on the walls and brain matter on the sheets. There is the unmistakable stench of death in the claustrophobic bedroom. There is a grieving daughter, and her too calm husband. There is also a two and a half million dollar life insurance policy. And skin cells underneath her fingernails.
~x~
She offers him a wan smile as they wrap up yet another case of human depravity. Somehow, after these tough cases, she always tries to catch his eye to make sure that he's okay. He appreciates it, but it isn't necessary. He's not going to crack or break or fall apart just because someone's mother was killed. He can differentiate between his own situation and the crime at hand. He's not that fragile. But he likes that she cares enough to check, so he turns around and smiles back. It's a small smile, you wouldn't see it in any toothpaste commercials, but it's a silent acknowledgement between them that he's okay, she's okay, and they can both go home without worry.
Without a backward glance he turns and leaves the room, aware that her eyes are following him, and knowing that she cares for him more than she should. It's a small consolation that he holds tightly on those dark and empty nights.
He won't act though.
Because it's all about self-preservation.
End