The Smallest Act
"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."
Leo Buscaglia
In a daze she walked the corridors of the Cascade PD, desperately seeking the sanctuary of the rest room. The noise and clamour of everyday life seemed muted and distant and the sound of her own heartbeat thrummed mercilessly in her head. Peripherally she was aware of other people going about their business. They were too caught up in their own lives to notice that hers was crumbling around her; she envied them.
She felt invisible, a walking shade in the halls of justice, and vaguely she wondered if this was what it felt like to be dead; cast adrift from the mortal world, floundering. Disconnected and alone she longed for the warmth of human contact and yet she feared it. She did not what to cry, not here, not now.
Her only focus was reaching the rest room and thus she did not see the man before her until she literally ran into him, knocking the collection of files that he carried from his arms. They tumbled to the floor coming to rest in an untidy heap between them. The collision jolted her temporarily from her fugue state , her mind forced to react instead of coasting on automatic.
When he dropped to his haunches to retrieve his files she dropped to her knees to aid him in his task, all the while murmuring profuse apologies for her clumsiness. His response was polite, his tone slightly amused as he accepted both her help and apologies. When the last of the errant files were collected he offered her his hand to help her up from the floor, it was only then that she got a look at his face. Of course she recognized him right away.
Who at the station didn't know Jim Ellison? Cop of the Year for the past two years running, with the highest case closure rate at the CPD, the man was almost a living legend. True, she had heard some called him a legendary pain in the ass, and a cold hearted bastard to boot, but she tried not to listen to gossip, preferring to make up her own mind about people.
They had met once before, not that he would remember, when he'd come into the personnel department looking for some forms for his ride along partner, Blair Sandburg. He hadn't said much, but he'd been polite, if slightly impatient to leave. After that, she'd only seen him in passing, once of twice in the elevator or the parking garage, but they'd never spoken again.
Now here she stood, her small hand swallowed in his larger grip and under her palm she could feel the heat of his living flesh and she found that she didn't want to let go. She didn't want to be alone. The seconds seemed to stretch, one flowing into ten, twenty, thirty, a full minute. With dawning horror she realized that she was clinging onto a complete stranger as if he was all that stood between her and oblivion. Perhaps he was.
Shame and embarrassment flooded her, and she felt her cheeks begin to pink. She was afraid to look at him, not wanting to see condemnation or scorn in his expression. The restroom and its promise of sanctuary seemed an unobtainable Arcadia.
Flustered, she tried to excuse herself, hoping that she would be able to extricate herself without having to offer anything more than a simple apology. God, she felt like such a fool. However, Ellison's grip did not lessen and when she dared to look at him again, she found that his eyes were filled not with scorn or contempt, but with curiosity and concern.
"Miss, are you all right?"
She couldn't find the words to answer him; instead all she could do was stand there stupidly and stare into his unexpectedly gentle blue eyes. When no answer was forthcoming he asked again.
"Are you ill? Can I get someone for you? Do you need to sit down?"
Speech seemed to have abandoned her, and she floundered under his concern, ready to bolt, if only she could gather her wits about her.
"Claire? It's Claire, isn't it, from Personnel? Tell me what's wrong, let me help you."
At the mention of her name, reality seemed to come rushing back, and with it came a return of the pain that she had tried so unsuccessfully to run from. On some level she registered vague surprise that Jim Ellison recognized her, let alone knew her name, but for now it seemed unimportant. All that mattered was the warmth of his hand in her own.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm sorry."
Damn, now she could feel the sting of tears pushing unwanted at her eyes and still the restroom was too far away. She let out a trembling breath and tried to blink back the imminent flood; she owed him some form of explanation.
"I just got a call from PD in Seattle, my brother--he was in an accident, he's dead."
There, she'd said it. She'd put into words the horrible reality—dead. It was such a little word, so small and innocuous, but in its scope lay a lifetime of regret and sorrow. It had the power to shape lives, binding some together and destroying others. People ran from it, uncomfortable in its presence, and so she waited for Ellison's withdrawal. It never came.
Instead, she felt him draw her in close, his unfamiliar bulk surrounding her, protecting her. The heat from his body and his scent enveloped her and- God, how she needed this, needed this connection to another living being.
Under her ear she could hear the steady beat of his heart, solid and reassuring. She could feel the fabric of his shirt, soft and cool against her heated flesh and as her arms settled around him, clinging, she let the tears come. How long they remained like that she never knew, wrapped as she was in her grief. All she knew was that suddenly she wasn't alone any more, and that, for now, was enough.
Standing in the corridors of Cascade PD, with the busy world raging around her, she had found her sanctuary, not in solitude, but in the warm embrace of a kind and gracious stranger.
In the years to come when she looked back on the horror of that day, she found the memory of her loss tempered with gratitude and warm affection for her unexpected saviour. In a world filled with indifference and pain, Jim Ellison's honest touch and sincere concern had been a godsend.
Sometimes, in her darker moments, when hope felt weak and life sometimes too much to bear, she would take out the memory of his kindness and allow it to flow over her like a healing balm. It didn't matter to her that Jim Ellison probably didn't remember that day-didn't remember her, she would remember it for the both of them. She would rejoice in the knowledge that yes, against all the evidence to the contrary, there was still good people in the world. She'd remember the feel of his arms and the comfort they offered until her dying day.