Forgiving Amaro

Nick wasn't sure what he was doing here, standing outside Amanda's apartment at 2:30 in the morning. After everything that had gone down with Patton and Reynolds and Detective Taymor, and all the gut-wrenching things he'd learned about Amanda's past, he knew he should just leave her be. That was what she'd asked for, and that was what she needed. The logical part of him knew that.

But that other part, that damned stupid other part that was forever getting him into trouble, wouldn't let him.

He wasn't going to bother her. He knew she needed space. But he was also worried about the rabbit holes he knew she could go down. The drinking. The smoking. The gambling. God alone knew what other self-destructive grenades she'd deploy here, now that her darkest, most humiliating secrets had been ripped from inside her and displayed for the world to see.

He wasn't going to force anything. God. That was the last thing he wanted to do. But…she needed to know he was there. He cared.

Oh, hell. Maybe he was just standing here for himself. So he could sleep tonight knowing he'd stated his case, said his piece, that he was still a good guy, that he'd done something.

Well. Whatever his reasons, he was here. But he wasn't going to bother her.

That was why he'd written her the letter he held, the letter he'd written and re-written at least three times, trying to get it just right. The letter he held now in uncertain fingers, trying to decide whether to slip it under her door or to just fuck the whole thing and walk away.

Dear Amanda,

I'm not exactly sure how to start this, because I need to say I'm sorry, and I don't know how to say that without making it sound like I'm sitting here feeling sorry for you. Because I'm not. You deserve better than that.

But I am sorry for what happened to you. Truly, I am. I'm sorry that there are people out there like that, and I'm sorry you had to encounter so many of them in Atlanta. I'm sorry that they came here and made you re-live all of it.

And I'm sorry I didn't understand what you were trying to tell me all those weeks ago, in the bar, when you said we should back off and let Paula Martin decide whether or not to press charges against her husband. "Some of us don't want to be victims," you said. And it makes so much sense now. I get what you were trying to tell me. I didn't back then. I'm sorry I didn't. Just so you know, I don't hold that fight against you. It's forgiven. Forgotten. I hope someday, when you're ready, we can move past it. I don't want that to stand between us.

For what it's worth, I don't see you as a victim. I see you as a survivor. You've taken something awful that happened to you and used it to make you more compassionate toward the other survivors, the people we see in the precinct. In the hospital. Their dorm rooms. Their apartments. You understand these people in a way that the rest of us can't, because you've been where they've been. And I wanted you to know I really admire you for that. It makes you a great cop. An even greater person.

And now I don't know what to say, because I know you can accuse me of trying to swoop in and save you. Which I'm not really trying to do. At least, not in the arrogant way you always think I am. I just want you to know that, if you need me, I'm here for you. And not in the way I'm usually here for you, if you get my drift. I'm really here for you. Whatever you need, just call, okay? I'm here.

He'd sat there at his kitchen table for the longest time, struggling with how to sign off. Love, Nick seemed too forward. Sincerely too formal. Your friend not quite accurate, but yours a little too presumptuous.

In the end, he'd just scribbled his name, then folded the letter and stuffed it in the envelope before he could lose his nerve. Maybe he was making things worse with her. He didn't know.

But he couldn't just stand there and do nothing.

So instead he was standing here doing nothing. Scuffing his feet in the worn carpet of her apartment hallway, staring at the number on the back of the door so intensely he feared it would be permanently burned in his retinas. His stomach churned, his heart was in his throat, and he wondered why the hell he cared so much. They'd barely spoken since the fight in the bar. It wasn't like he had much to lose.

In the end, he supposed that was what gave him the courage to lean down, wedge the note beneath her door, and give it a gentle shove. He heard it skitter across her hardwood floor. A soft papery thud as it ran into something.

Well. That was that. He'd done something. Maybe now he could get some sleep.

He was just turning to leave when he heard toenails clacking across her floor, and he had to smile. Frannie. He'd never been much of a dog person, but he liked Frannie. He felt almost wistful, listening to her familiar whiffling and the soft bark.

"What is it, girl?"

Amanda's quiet voice stopped him in his tracks. He hadn't expected her to still be awake. And now he was completely paralyzed, right there in the hallway. Couldn't move if he wanted to. He was too invested now.

Straining his ears, he heard the soft tearing as she opened the envelope. She cleared her throat…and then silence.

Silence.

Nick had always heard that expression, 'deafening silence,' but he hadn't known until now what it meant. He'd never known just how heavy, how crushing, how loud a silence could be. It pushed against his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. It squeezed his heart, causing the blood to roar in his ears. It pressed in all around him, a physical force. All the standoffs he'd been a part of, all the deals in Narcotics, all the stuff in Iraq, and somehow he'd never heard a silence quite like this one.

Finally, it stretched his nerves to the breaking point, and he turned to walk away. Come what may, he'd done what he needed to do. It was her move now. And, knowing her, she'd never say a word about it. He'd never know anything about how it was received. It would forever be a mystery. And why, why, why was this so goddamn important?

The floorboards creaked beneath his left foot. The first sound he'd heard in what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a minute or so. The apartment next to hers still had the television on. Sounded like soccer in Arabic, but he wasn't entirely sure.

And then locks clicked, doorknobs rattled, and a door creaked open. Her door. Amanda's door.

"Nick?"

He turned and looked over his shoulder. She was standing there in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her feet were bare, and she had on that plaid flannel shirt she liked so much. Those almond shaped eyes regarded him quizzically, almost as though she wasn't sure he was really standing there in her hallway.

He blew out a breath and turned around. "Hey."

She looked at him again, her pale blue eyes peering past his defenses, as they always did. She was putting him under the microscope, sizing him up, evaluating him. And he hoped like hell he passed the test.

Finally, she relaxed her stance. A dimple appeared to the right side of her mouth. And then she sighed and opened the door the rest of the way.

Slowly, silently, he doubled back.

This time, the silence was an absolution.