title: Closure
author: Star Angel (aka: me)
disclaimer: yadda yadda yadda, not mine, alice's personality is of my own creation (cuz we know how lacking alias was in that department) i just wanted them to come out and play. JJ can have them back just as soon as i'm done

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You don't really know what you're doing there.

Well, of course you know. You still have some stuff there. A pair of socks, a few pictures, your spare toothbrush and other such knickknacks that you wouldn't have remembered ordinarily but you can't stand the thought of them lost and forgotten somewhere in a corner of his storage room, gathering dust. You can't stand the idea of becoming a faded memory.

Better to have never existed at all.

You could call. You should call. Just pick up the phone and ask when it would be convenient to come pick up your things…or even have them sent to you…a lot more convenient.

But you don't trust that you won't burst into tears over the phone.

You love him. The big idiot, you still love him.

So, instead of acting like a rational adult, you're staked out in front of your ex-boyfriend's house at 7:00 in the morning (because he always goes in early) waiting for him to go to work so that you can use the spare key he had forgotten he had given you (it's not like you'd needed to use it for a few weeks now) to enter his apartment and take back all of your stuff without having to be in his presence (because goddammit! Haven't you been through enough lately !?! And doesn't that give you the right to act a bit loopy and avoid confrontation !?!)

You hold on to this bit of illogic as you wait…see him speed out of the house, coffee thermos and toast in hand. You latch onto this pseudo-reasoning for courage as you watch his car turn the corner at the end of the street. You glance at the clock on your dashboard, stare for a moment, resist the urge to do a double-take because this is not a television show and there will be no laugh-track to validate the silliness of the move…it's 7:43…for the first time for as long as you've known him he's going to be on time for work. You imagine the devil must be building a snowman right about now.

You take a breath…you take another breath…you marvel at how white your knuckles are getting as your hands grip the steering wheel…you watch the time pass…7:44…7:45…

The next thing you know, you're out on the street, walking to the front entrance of his building. You suddenly remember that you need oxygen to live and exhale.

The doorman recognizes you and smiles. You bare your teeth, hope it's enough and wait for the elevator.

There's the familiar ping as the doors slide open, revealing a cheerful Mrs. Baxter.

"Why hello dear!"

You step into the car and stand next to the older woman. You fidget. Mrs. Baxter usually reminds you of the comforts of your grandmother's kitchen but you wouldn't be more uncomfortable right now if the kindly neighbour suddenly stripped down to her birthday suit and started doing the Macarena.

"Why I haven't seen you around here for some time child! Mr. Baxter has been asking you, y'know? 'Where is that lovely girl that Michael was seeing? He was so head over heels for her. Such a nice young lady.' Remember how you used to come around and play chess on Sundays dear? Oh! Sunday afternoon chess is one of Harold's favourite things to do but you haven't dropped by for weeks now!"

"I've been busy…"

"Of course you have! A fine young woman like you. Working in Real Estate no less. Good for you dear! These days, a woman can't depend on a man to support her! You stand on your own two feet…But oh! Michael is certainly a catch dear. We're so happy for the two of you!… Between you and me though, I'm glad those women with the hairy armpits aren't around anymore…You do shave your armpits don't you dear?"

"Um…"

Ping!

"Goodbye Mrs. Baxter!"

"Goodbye de-" Her voice is cut-off by the closing doors and you sigh in relief. You never realized how slowly elevators moved.

You make your way slowly down the familiar hallway leading to his apartment. A path you've taken a million times before in the past few years. Only recently had it become alien to you, made you feel like an intruder, even when you were seeing him.

Officially, that ended two days ago. Unofficially…

You'd rather not think about how screwed up the best relationship of your life had gotten and how blind you were that the man you loved stopped loving you long ago.

You're finally there, in front of his door, key in hand, poised, ready to enter.

You have a choice, you know that. You could be mature and run back to the elevator, into your car, back home and try to forget him. Buy another toothbrush, fold your socks from the laundry, reorganize your photo albums (and throw out your newly created headless Vaughn collection)

But you need closure and even though you spent the entire night breaking up, you need to completely extricate yourself from his life. So, you take a deep breath and insert the key into the lock.

The first thing that assaults you is the smell. Everything smells like him, the walls, the air, the furniture…smell is supposedly the best memory-enhancing agent and you never believed it until now as you get flashes of his arms around you as you fell asleep, burying your face into his neck as you sat on the couch and watched some old movie, waking up to an empty bed but a romantic note, enveloped in his sheets…

You blink back tears…you're tired of crying. It feels like you've been crying your entire life. But you never expected him of all people to be the cause of your tears.

You stroll through the apartment, hugging your purse strap close to your body, shrinking away from it all but unable to leave. You were going to get married, have three beautiful children with your hair and his eyes, move to the suburbs, buy a minivan…you had discussed it. You still don't understand what changed.

"Vaughn?"

You freeze. Who the hell is that?

"Hey, did you forget…"

She trails off. You stare. She stares.

Rita. Nice, sweet Rita. Nice, sweet Rita from the bureau. Nice, sweet Rita from the bureau is standing in the middle of Michael's living room. Nice, sweet Rita from the bureau is standing in the middle of Michael's living room in his boxers. Nice, sweet Rita from the bureau is standing in the middle of Michael's living room wearing his boxers and the damn L.A. Kings t-shirt he wouldn't even let you wash.

And suddenly, you understand.

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TBC

puh-leeeeeeeeeeze let me know what you think