I had stopped talking to him a long time ago. We spoke, of course, but never the way we used to, back before everything happened. In the observation room
that day, all my emotions came rushing out, all the pain and rage about the entire Testarossa case. I was looking at him while I talked, but it was only after I
had finished that I truly saw his face. It was awful, seeing him realize that there could be something worse than suspension. I couldn't stop thinking about the way
he looked at me. Why had I done this to him? He had to keep it secret, to get back his shield, his life, his…partner. These past few weeks, it's happened again,
almost. He needed me, so much, and I wasn't there. I more or less apologized, but I doubt he realized what I really meant to say. And now…I can't bring myself to
find him. I'm just here, on the couch, wondering why I took it all out on Bobby. My eyes wander to the middle shelf of the bookcase, all the slim bundled sheets
there. I start looking closer, and, without realizing it, I'm up, taking out book after book of music. I stop at Bach. It's a concerto, full of long, octave-spanning
stretches of notes that are insanely difficult to play. Perfect. I slide open the piano's cover gently, without a sound, and try to find my place.
After a few false starts, the notes come easily. My fingers are flying. I don't think I've ever played this fast, and strangely, it seems easy. It would be so easy to
drive into Manhattan, find him (there aren't many places Bobby would go)…and then what? I've hurt him far worse than he has ever hurt me. Would he lash out,
like at the Captain and Rodgers? Would he just stand there, silent, and push me away again? There's something more to this, there must be, but I can't see it. I
would probably just make it worse…Aah! I hit a sour chord, so far from the actual notes I can't believe I made the mistake. It takes some time to reposition, and I
brush a series of notes, a low minor chord in ascending order. It's the tiniest of sounds, but something about it seems right, somehow. I play again, louder, more
carefully. The low notes seem familiar, maybe from an old piece I haven't looked at in a while. I try playing with the order, length, intensity, until it clicks, all at
once. Even with those working, it needs balance. A major chord could work, to smooth out the deep sounds and fill in the hollow-sounding spaces. I try a high
series, at first. The notes sound good, but when I try the two together, I always end up missing a few notes after a while. A single octave up is no good either; it
only accents what the low series needs. I think, testing every combination I can think of, when I realize: the accompaniment is too short. It has to be the same
length as the low series. Two octaves higher works. It's an ascending series, almost sounding minor when I play it for the first time. I start the low series, then the
high. The two hands of music jar a bit, and I almost stop, but then they click. They fit together exactly, like mirror images. It's perfect, something that could never
end.
When I stop playing, I sit at the piano for a long time, listening, as I hear the high series filling in the low, and the low adding depth to the high. Then it hits me, the
reason for my music. I scribble the notes down hastily, though it seems like I'm taking forever. Then I walk out across my driveway, into the quiet car. He won't be
asleep, I know it.