Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made.
Everything fell apart today. Everything but us. The lady we were protecting ended up a lot worse than just beaten by her husband again. All the money in the world won't protect him this time, not after he did that to her in front of a security camera. That fucker!
But I know if it's hard for me then its damn near impossible for Van. I pull my eyes away from the road for a moment and sneak a look at him. He's sitting there stiffly, eyes wide open and blinking just a bit too often like he's still seeing it and trying to rid himself of the memory. I know I would still be seeing it play in my head if I'd been standing there, if I was the one that ended up with her blood splattered on my clothes, on my face. It's wiped off his face now and we ditched his jacket but I can still see droplets of half dried blood on his shirt, the dark reddish brown standing out on the light grey fabric. I'll have to remember to throw it away tonight, before I go to bed so he doesn't have to see it again tomorrow. I suspect he'll be seeing it in his head for awhile though.
I glance over again, he's still blinking and wide eyed. I hate that vacant look. It's like he's so locked into his head right now I might as well not even be here. But then if someone else was driving him they'd skip taking him home and probably head for the nearest hospital, considering how out of it he seems.
I pull into my driveway just as the sun falls far enough to shoot its light under the visor, nearly blinding me with its intensity. I put the car in park, now in the shadow of the house and shift in my seat to talk to Van. He turns his head and gives me the most vacant stare I've ever seen. There's just nothing, no pain, no emotions, no Van at all. The intensity and fire that animates him is gone.
I have to remind myself that this isn't the first time this has happened. I know he bounces back, good as new. Well almost. Every time, after this happens, there's a little change in him. He seems just a little harder, a little more jaded, a little older. It's just a tiny change but I keep thinking over time it's going to add up and one day he won't bounce back to himself because this is what he'll have become, this broken zombie with the vacant stare.
His expression changes fractionally and he looks just a little confused. I shake myself from my thoughts and notice that it seems slightly darker and I wonder, how long was I staring at him? How long was I looking into those vacant eyes? How long was it before he realized that we weren't moving?
"Common, Van. Let's get inside. We're burnin' daylight here," I say with a lot more enthusiasm than I feel. As I get out of the car I take a deep breath and try to relax. It doesn't help much.
Van slowly gets out of the car closing the door behind himself quietly like he doesn't want the loud banging noise to break him from his thoughts. I want to open my door again and slam it over and over again until he snaps out of it. I don't. After all this isn't the first time this has happened. I know how to handle this. Or at least I know what not to do.
I head for the front door holding my keys tightly in my hand so they don't jingle, their sharp edges biting into my fingers.
I hear his dragging footsteps behind me. It's a weird sound coming from him because usually his feet barely hit the ground before he's taking another step. To say he's normally bouncy is something of an understatement because his feet are like springs, coiled momentum always driving him towards the next thing. Right now I'm not sure if he's even trying to pick up his feet. I wonder if he hates the sound but can't be bothered putting in the effort to walk properly. I want to ask but I won't. Wouldn't do any good anyway.
He follows me inside and I kick off my shoes into the hall closet. He stands there looking at a random spot on the wall, totally tuned out.
"Van, you gonna come inside?" I ask quietly.
After a moment he sniffs and shakes his head just a bit, like he's trying to break himself out of his self induced spell. He looks me in the eyes, opens his mouth to say something then gets that confused look on his face. He looks down at the floor and I watch as a little tremor works its way through his body. He lets out a small gasp then his face goes blank again. Suddenly I'm glad he's not looking at me because I couldn't stand to see those blank eyes again.
I walk right up to him, close enough that he can reach out if he wants to but far enough away that I'm not right on top of him or anything. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reaches forward and grabs my hand in his own. I want so badly to pull him to me but I know better, it's not time for that, not yet. I've been here before.
I gently tug his hand to get him moving. He follows, obedient and silent, two things he never should be. Not my Van.
I steer him towards the bedroom, guide him to the bed where I push him to sit down. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks so small, shoulders hunched in defeat, eyes downcast. I bend down and yank off his shoes. I look up and see that his eyes are squeezed shut, his brow wrinkled in some inner pain. I'm not happy to see it but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved to see some sign that he's feeling something. I know there had to be something going through his head before but I'm just not sure even he could make sense of it. Somehow seeing him react is a good thing even if he seems worse off, more upset. Anything's better than that damn blank stare.
I stand back up and lean down to start undoing the buttons on his shirt. He watches my fingers silently. When his shirt is open he shrugs out of it and I toss it into the small garbage in the corner.
Van looks at the shirt, it landed with the most blood splattered part facing up. I go over and stuff it down into the can where he can't see it. He looks away, staring at the floor. One hand rubs at the back of his neck then down his jaw. He's shivering now and even though I turned the a/c down I can see the goose bumps on his skin.
"Go on get under the covers, baby," I say, the pet name sounding totally natural. I used to wonder if he found it insulting, after all Van's a man, not some girl of mine. He doesn't, but he IS mine, in a way. He's mine in this way that I never could have imagined and I wouldn't give him up for the world.
He gets up and silently trudges off to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. I think I should probably call Billie and let her know Van's at my place, just in case she tries calling him. I know she cares so much more than she'll ever admit. I saw her looks of concern when I guided Van away from the chaotic crime scene.
The sound of the shower turning on surprises me but then I remember the blood.
Billie and I ran up but we were too late, just like him. We saw what happened on the monitors, saw her head explode as a bullet tore into it, saw Van run over just a second too late. We watched as he took down that bastard with a quick efficiency any Navy Seal or Secret Service agent would be impressed by. Saw him stand over the guy, gun aimed at his head. Saw the bastard lay there arm bleeding, the wound not fatal but enough to keep him floored. We watched S.W.A.T. come in and take over as Van spoke to them, appearing totally together.
But when we got there and he came around the corner I could see the blood all over him, haphazardly wiped off his face. But what's worse I could see that he'd shut down. Somewhere between leaving the scene and walking around the side of the building he'd snapped and I was looking into those deadened, wide eyes.
I dial Billie's number.
"I took him back to my place," I say not even bothering with pleasantries. She asks how he is and it's not like I can really give her an answer but I tell her I'll take care of him and we'll be in tomorrow morning. She starts to say something about the look in his eyes and I cut her off saying I have to go. I just don't even want to talk about it right now.
Tossing the phone onto the bed I go and open the bathroom door. It's so steamy that I can barely see to the other side of the small room. I flick on the fan that Van obviously forgot and quickly take off my clothes, pull back the curtain and get in.
He's under the spray, head bowed, wet hair hanging over most of his face. From where it's hitting me I wonder how he can stand it so hot. But he's still feeling cold and I can see him shivering. He's always cold after things like this happen. He looks at me and his eyes that were totally empty before are now so full of emotion that it's like he can't keep it all in. He looks so devastated that I wonder how I could possibly make him feel any better, how anything could ease that much pain.
Suddenly he's wrapped around me, arms holding tightly, his face pressed against my neck. I can see how red the skin on his back is. I reach around him and turn down the hot water to a normal level. He clings to me so tightly that he's actually making it hard to breath, squeezing me like some human boa constrictor. Not that I'd ever say anything about it. I probably wouldn't tell him to ease off even if he cracked my ribs. It's just so much easier to feel him needing me so badly that it hurts than to watch him shut off and distant.
Finally he lets me go and I watch as he takes a ragged breath. He looks me in the eyes again and for a second the pain and sadness recedes and he gives me a small, almost ashamed grin. Turning off the water he finally speaks. His voice is quiet but rough, like the tears he keeps inside have irritated his throat.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to freak out on you."
He wants to say more, I can tell, but he leaves it at that. It's like he had a hard time getting that much out.
"Baby, you don't have to apologize to me, you know that," I say trying to reassure him. I guess that was the wrong thing to say because his face falls and he looks more upset than ever.
Stepping out of the shower he grabs two big, fluffy towels from the rack and toss me one.
"And how do I apologize to Stacey now?"
Stacey's the lady that got killed today. See, I called her by her last name the whole time, but not Van. Everything's so personal, always is with him.
I don't know what to say so I grab the towel from him and start drying him off. He's still shivering a bit though it's hot and steamy in the bathroom. He was doing fine on his own but since he was moving so slowly I figure I can speed things up before he gets really chilled.
"Van, I saw what happened. Billie and me we were watchin' on the monitors. You couldn't have seen that coming. None of us did."
"Deaq, I promised her, man. I told her we would help her and she believed me. She believed we'd help her. I got her killed!" He's practically yelling by the time he finishes and his strained voice is loud in my ears.
He looks startled, like he can't believe all that noise came from him and in the time it takes me to turn around and toss the towels down he's got that blank look on his face again. Shit. He's shut down again. He's just standing there, blinking and shaking a little.
I sigh deeply knowing that the conversation's over with, at least for now.
I guide him back to the bedroom and under the covers. He's really shaking now and he curls up into a ball before I can walk around and climb in on the other side. I slip in and his back's to me. I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him. I hold him tightly, not as tight as he held me earlier in the shower but tight enough that he can't tune it out.
"We're home and we're safe now, Van. Just relax, let it out. Whatever you need, just let go, baby. Nobody else is here and nothing needs to do done. You don't have to keep up appearances. It's just you and me here, okay?"
"Okay." It comes out so quietly I barely hear it but I feel his head nod minutely. "I-I really tried. I wanted to help her so bad, man. She was going to move and live with her sister's family in Oregon. She said she didn't care about the money and leaving it all behind, she just wanted to be somewhere where she didn't have to be afraid all the time. I really thought we were helping. I wouldn't have pushed her to give us all that evidence against her husband if I thought she wasn't going to get a better life from it. I promised her I'd keep him away. But he-he came in and I ... she ... and he ...then ..."
His voice is rough and his tone so full of pain that it sounds like his tears come from his mouth rather than his eyes. It's like he talks out his pain and grief and guilt, which make sense after all. He IS a talker. I think that's why it's so hard when he's quiet and locked in his head. It's like he can't get anything out and even though he looks back at me with vacant eyes I know how much is bottled up in him, how badly he needs to talk it out. I wonder if he keeps it in as some kind of self punishment or something.
"Shhh, I know," I say softly. I lightly kiss his damp hair and pull him just a little closer. He's finally stopped shivering. I hear him sniffle a bit but he doesn't say anything else. No tears, not even now. I wonder if he doesn't cry now for the same reason that he wouldn't talk earlier. Does he keep things in just to hurt himself because he thinks he screwed up?
I suppose I should just be happy he at least talked a bit, at least got some of it out.
His breathing has evened out and I can feel the muscles in his back starting to loosen. He relaxes against me and I snuggle him as close as I can.
I'm pissed with the fucker for killing her. I'm even more pissed he had to do it in front of Van. I'm angry with Billie for putting Van in that situation. I'm even ticked off at the girl for getting killed and I know it's certainly not her fault.
But I can't hold it against Van even though it's more his fault than any of theirs. He lets himself get into this, leaves himself open for this kind of pain. He insists on getting close to people. The mark, the victim, doesn't matter. It seems more often than not he gets involved with them, personally concerned.
I guess I thought once we started hooking up that would stop. If we were together then why would he get so close to the mark? I though I'D take that place. Sure, he doesn't sleep with every pretty, misguided, victimized thing that comes through the door anymore, but it doesn't mean he cares any less. He still gets just as involved, cares just as much as ever. I can't be mad at him for that, even if it does sometimes end up with him getting all messed up like this.
I remember hearing somewhere that the person we really are is the sum of all our faults. If that's true then Van adds up to the best man I know. It's his caring and concern for others that gets him hurt but it's the same quality that draws people to him. It draws me to him. I don't love him despite of faults. I love him BECAUSE of them.
Everything fell apart today. Everything but us. The lady we were protecting ended up a lot worse than just beaten by her husband again. All the money in the world won't protect him this time, not after he did that to her in front of a security camera. That fucker!
But I know if it's hard for me then its damn near impossible for Van. I pull my eyes away from the road for a moment and sneak a look at him. He's sitting there stiffly, eyes wide open and blinking just a bit too often like he's still seeing it and trying to rid himself of the memory. I know I would still be seeing it play in my head if I'd been standing there, if I was the one that ended up with her blood splattered on my clothes, on my face. It's wiped off his face now and we ditched his jacket but I can still see droplets of half dried blood on his shirt, the dark reddish brown standing out on the light grey fabric. I'll have to remember to throw it away tonight, before I go to bed so he doesn't have to see it again tomorrow. I suspect he'll be seeing it in his head for awhile though.
I glance over again, he's still blinking and wide eyed. I hate that vacant look. It's like he's so locked into his head right now I might as well not even be here. But then if someone else was driving him they'd skip taking him home and probably head for the nearest hospital, considering how out of it he seems.
I pull into my driveway just as the sun falls far enough to shoot its light under the visor, nearly blinding me with its intensity. I put the car in park, now in the shadow of the house and shift in my seat to talk to Van. He turns his head and gives me the most vacant stare I've ever seen. There's just nothing, no pain, no emotions, no Van at all. The intensity and fire that animates him is gone.
I have to remind myself that this isn't the first time this has happened. I know he bounces back, good as new. Well almost. Every time, after this happens, there's a little change in him. He seems just a little harder, a little more jaded, a little older. It's just a tiny change but I keep thinking over time it's going to add up and one day he won't bounce back to himself because this is what he'll have become, this broken zombie with the vacant stare.
His expression changes fractionally and he looks just a little confused. I shake myself from my thoughts and notice that it seems slightly darker and I wonder, how long was I staring at him? How long was I looking into those vacant eyes? How long was it before he realized that we weren't moving?
"Common, Van. Let's get inside. We're burnin' daylight here," I say with a lot more enthusiasm than I feel. As I get out of the car I take a deep breath and try to relax. It doesn't help much.
Van slowly gets out of the car closing the door behind himself quietly like he doesn't want the loud banging noise to break him from his thoughts. I want to open my door again and slam it over and over again until he snaps out of it. I don't. After all this isn't the first time this has happened. I know how to handle this. Or at least I know what not to do.
I head for the front door holding my keys tightly in my hand so they don't jingle, their sharp edges biting into my fingers.
I hear his dragging footsteps behind me. It's a weird sound coming from him because usually his feet barely hit the ground before he's taking another step. To say he's normally bouncy is something of an understatement because his feet are like springs, coiled momentum always driving him towards the next thing. Right now I'm not sure if he's even trying to pick up his feet. I wonder if he hates the sound but can't be bothered putting in the effort to walk properly. I want to ask but I won't. Wouldn't do any good anyway.
He follows me inside and I kick off my shoes into the hall closet. He stands there looking at a random spot on the wall, totally tuned out.
"Van, you gonna come inside?" I ask quietly.
After a moment he sniffs and shakes his head just a bit, like he's trying to break himself out of his self induced spell. He looks me in the eyes, opens his mouth to say something then gets that confused look on his face. He looks down at the floor and I watch as a little tremor works its way through his body. He lets out a small gasp then his face goes blank again. Suddenly I'm glad he's not looking at me because I couldn't stand to see those blank eyes again.
I walk right up to him, close enough that he can reach out if he wants to but far enough away that I'm not right on top of him or anything. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reaches forward and grabs my hand in his own. I want so badly to pull him to me but I know better, it's not time for that, not yet. I've been here before.
I gently tug his hand to get him moving. He follows, obedient and silent, two things he never should be. Not my Van.
I steer him towards the bedroom, guide him to the bed where I push him to sit down. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks so small, shoulders hunched in defeat, eyes downcast. I bend down and yank off his shoes. I look up and see that his eyes are squeezed shut, his brow wrinkled in some inner pain. I'm not happy to see it but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved to see some sign that he's feeling something. I know there had to be something going through his head before but I'm just not sure even he could make sense of it. Somehow seeing him react is a good thing even if he seems worse off, more upset. Anything's better than that damn blank stare.
I stand back up and lean down to start undoing the buttons on his shirt. He watches my fingers silently. When his shirt is open he shrugs out of it and I toss it into the small garbage in the corner.
Van looks at the shirt, it landed with the most blood splattered part facing up. I go over and stuff it down into the can where he can't see it. He looks away, staring at the floor. One hand rubs at the back of his neck then down his jaw. He's shivering now and even though I turned the a/c down I can see the goose bumps on his skin.
"Go on get under the covers, baby," I say, the pet name sounding totally natural. I used to wonder if he found it insulting, after all Van's a man, not some girl of mine. He doesn't, but he IS mine, in a way. He's mine in this way that I never could have imagined and I wouldn't give him up for the world.
He gets up and silently trudges off to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. I think I should probably call Billie and let her know Van's at my place, just in case she tries calling him. I know she cares so much more than she'll ever admit. I saw her looks of concern when I guided Van away from the chaotic crime scene.
The sound of the shower turning on surprises me but then I remember the blood.
Billie and I ran up but we were too late, just like him. We saw what happened on the monitors, saw her head explode as a bullet tore into it, saw Van run over just a second too late. We watched as he took down that bastard with a quick efficiency any Navy Seal or Secret Service agent would be impressed by. Saw him stand over the guy, gun aimed at his head. Saw the bastard lay there arm bleeding, the wound not fatal but enough to keep him floored. We watched S.W.A.T. come in and take over as Van spoke to them, appearing totally together.
But when we got there and he came around the corner I could see the blood all over him, haphazardly wiped off his face. But what's worse I could see that he'd shut down. Somewhere between leaving the scene and walking around the side of the building he'd snapped and I was looking into those deadened, wide eyes.
I dial Billie's number.
"I took him back to my place," I say not even bothering with pleasantries. She asks how he is and it's not like I can really give her an answer but I tell her I'll take care of him and we'll be in tomorrow morning. She starts to say something about the look in his eyes and I cut her off saying I have to go. I just don't even want to talk about it right now.
Tossing the phone onto the bed I go and open the bathroom door. It's so steamy that I can barely see to the other side of the small room. I flick on the fan that Van obviously forgot and quickly take off my clothes, pull back the curtain and get in.
He's under the spray, head bowed, wet hair hanging over most of his face. From where it's hitting me I wonder how he can stand it so hot. But he's still feeling cold and I can see him shivering. He's always cold after things like this happen. He looks at me and his eyes that were totally empty before are now so full of emotion that it's like he can't keep it all in. He looks so devastated that I wonder how I could possibly make him feel any better, how anything could ease that much pain.
Suddenly he's wrapped around me, arms holding tightly, his face pressed against my neck. I can see how red the skin on his back is. I reach around him and turn down the hot water to a normal level. He clings to me so tightly that he's actually making it hard to breath, squeezing me like some human boa constrictor. Not that I'd ever say anything about it. I probably wouldn't tell him to ease off even if he cracked my ribs. It's just so much easier to feel him needing me so badly that it hurts than to watch him shut off and distant.
Finally he lets me go and I watch as he takes a ragged breath. He looks me in the eyes again and for a second the pain and sadness recedes and he gives me a small, almost ashamed grin. Turning off the water he finally speaks. His voice is quiet but rough, like the tears he keeps inside have irritated his throat.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to freak out on you."
He wants to say more, I can tell, but he leaves it at that. It's like he had a hard time getting that much out.
"Baby, you don't have to apologize to me, you know that," I say trying to reassure him. I guess that was the wrong thing to say because his face falls and he looks more upset than ever.
Stepping out of the shower he grabs two big, fluffy towels from the rack and toss me one.
"And how do I apologize to Stacey now?"
Stacey's the lady that got killed today. See, I called her by her last name the whole time, but not Van. Everything's so personal, always is with him.
I don't know what to say so I grab the towel from him and start drying him off. He's still shivering a bit though it's hot and steamy in the bathroom. He was doing fine on his own but since he was moving so slowly I figure I can speed things up before he gets really chilled.
"Van, I saw what happened. Billie and me we were watchin' on the monitors. You couldn't have seen that coming. None of us did."
"Deaq, I promised her, man. I told her we would help her and she believed me. She believed we'd help her. I got her killed!" He's practically yelling by the time he finishes and his strained voice is loud in my ears.
He looks startled, like he can't believe all that noise came from him and in the time it takes me to turn around and toss the towels down he's got that blank look on his face again. Shit. He's shut down again. He's just standing there, blinking and shaking a little.
I sigh deeply knowing that the conversation's over with, at least for now.
I guide him back to the bedroom and under the covers. He's really shaking now and he curls up into a ball before I can walk around and climb in on the other side. I slip in and his back's to me. I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him. I hold him tightly, not as tight as he held me earlier in the shower but tight enough that he can't tune it out.
"We're home and we're safe now, Van. Just relax, let it out. Whatever you need, just let go, baby. Nobody else is here and nothing needs to do done. You don't have to keep up appearances. It's just you and me here, okay?"
"Okay." It comes out so quietly I barely hear it but I feel his head nod minutely. "I-I really tried. I wanted to help her so bad, man. She was going to move and live with her sister's family in Oregon. She said she didn't care about the money and leaving it all behind, she just wanted to be somewhere where she didn't have to be afraid all the time. I really thought we were helping. I wouldn't have pushed her to give us all that evidence against her husband if I thought she wasn't going to get a better life from it. I promised her I'd keep him away. But he-he came in and I ... she ... and he ...then ..."
His voice is rough and his tone so full of pain that it sounds like his tears come from his mouth rather than his eyes. It's like he talks out his pain and grief and guilt, which make sense after all. He IS a talker. I think that's why it's so hard when he's quiet and locked in his head. It's like he can't get anything out and even though he looks back at me with vacant eyes I know how much is bottled up in him, how badly he needs to talk it out. I wonder if he keeps it in as some kind of self punishment or something.
"Shhh, I know," I say softly. I lightly kiss his damp hair and pull him just a little closer. He's finally stopped shivering. I hear him sniffle a bit but he doesn't say anything else. No tears, not even now. I wonder if he doesn't cry now for the same reason that he wouldn't talk earlier. Does he keep things in just to hurt himself because he thinks he screwed up?
I suppose I should just be happy he at least talked a bit, at least got some of it out.
His breathing has evened out and I can feel the muscles in his back starting to loosen. He relaxes against me and I snuggle him as close as I can.
I'm pissed with the fucker for killing her. I'm even more pissed he had to do it in front of Van. I'm angry with Billie for putting Van in that situation. I'm even ticked off at the girl for getting killed and I know it's certainly not her fault.
But I can't hold it against Van even though it's more his fault than any of theirs. He lets himself get into this, leaves himself open for this kind of pain. He insists on getting close to people. The mark, the victim, doesn't matter. It seems more often than not he gets involved with them, personally concerned.
I guess I thought once we started hooking up that would stop. If we were together then why would he get so close to the mark? I though I'D take that place. Sure, he doesn't sleep with every pretty, misguided, victimized thing that comes through the door anymore, but it doesn't mean he cares any less. He still gets just as involved, cares just as much as ever. I can't be mad at him for that, even if it does sometimes end up with him getting all messed up like this.
I remember hearing somewhere that the person we really are is the sum of all our faults. If that's true then Van adds up to the best man I know. It's his caring and concern for others that gets him hurt but it's the same quality that draws people to him. It draws me to him. I don't love him despite of faults. I love him BECAUSE of them.