A/N: Here's another chapter folks! I apologize in advance for its shortness, but I can promise another, longer, chapter tomorrow, thanks to my lovely extended vacation due to snow. Hope you enjoy!
I sat down on my end of the couch and flipped the TV on. I surfed through all the channels, quickly skipping the ones playing Charlie Brown. I finally settled on a documentary about revolutionary war guns. I remember about five minutes of it, and then waking up to Casey's hand on my shoulder, and him telling me to wake up. The eleven o'clock news was on now, and as I sat up, I heard a name I never wanted to hear again. William Jamison, the newscaster had said, had she not?
"Wait, Casey, replay that." He gave me his 'what the hell' grunt, but did as I requested.
"William Jamison, one of several DC Metro police officers involved in a drug and human trafficking ring has been formally charged with those crimes, and will plead not guilty. For the full story, see our website…"
"Can I borrow your laptop?"
Again, I received the 'what the hell?' grunt, this time accompanied by a puzzled look, but he handed the laptop over.
I located the article on the website almost immediately. Hesitating for only a few seconds, I pressed play and began the video.
"Several months ago, a drug and human trafficking ring was uncovered in the DC Metro police department. Special Agent Grace Tarpin of the FBI was undercover as a detective with the department, and was a crucial player in the exposure of this criminal activity. Tarpin, 35, took a stray bullet to the abdomen, and was killed in the raid where the officers involved were captured." Here, they showed my picture, just in case Casey hadn't yet figured out that this was my op. Grace Tarpin was a blond, with blue eyes. There were other differences too, that I faithfully made with make-up, every day for three years.
"Of the seven officers involved, William Jamison is the only one pleading not guilty. His trial will begin in mid January. The Deputy Director of the FBI remarked in an interview that, "Grace Tarpin was an excellent agent. We miss her talent here, at headquarters, and on the streets. Her work was instrumental exposure of this ring of crime, and she gave the ultimate sacrifice for her country and its people. We thank you, Agent Tarpin, for your life." For full coverage of the Jamison trial, tune in with us as…"
I stopped the video. Two months from now, this could all be over. The day could be over, and I could go home. I found myself crying, again. Casey took the laptop and set it on the coffee table.
"You were a blond," he said.
"And a dumb one at that. It'll be a year, they said. It'll be a sure-fire path to a promotion. And I believed them." No matter what I tried, the tears kept coming. I felt Casey's hand on my arm, and the next thing I knew, I was sobbing into his shoulder. His hand made its way around me to rest on my back. I don't know how long we sat there, but when the tears finally dried, I couldn't help but feel safe.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying. "I'm going to go to bed." I stood up, and as I was leaving the living room, I heard him say,
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, John."
When I was finally in my bed, a new set of tears made themselves known. I had felt so safe, so protected, in Casey's arms just now. I was not supposed to feel. This wasn't the time, this wasn't the place. The prize, now even in sight, was home. I couldn't afford to get greedy. But he was so warm. I haven't been that close to a warm body in a great many months. Casey was warm, and safe, and, comfortable. But I don't believe in love.
It was not the first time, and certainly not the last time that I cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke on Thanksgiving morning, it was to the smell of good coffee and far too much sunlight for my taste. Showered and dressed for Thanksgiving dinner at the Bartowskis' I wandered into the kitchen with my black flour covered shirt. I helped myself to coffee, and began the mashed potatoes. I set up peeling potatoes, once again sitting on the counter near the sink. It was relaxing in the way that mindless labor could be, until I dropped the potato peeler and it landed with a crash on the floor in the otherwise silent apartment. I slid off the counter to get it, and when I looked up, Casey was in the doorway, gun in hand.
"I didn't expect to see you for a few more hours," he said. I shrugged.
"You can't save the world by hiding from it."
I went back to peeling potatoes, and jumped when I heard a cabinet door close. Casey walked over to the sink and filled a pot part way with water, and put it on the stove to heat up. He cut the potatoes I had peeled in half, and was about to dump them into the pot when I stopped him.
"Wait," I said, taking a potato half. It was about four feet from where I sat to the stove. I tossed, and missed, but not by much, so I took a second, and that landed in the pot. Casey snorted, but he set the cutting board back on the counter, and picked up a piece of potato. By the time all the potatoes made it into the pot, we were both laughing. As I cleaned up and waited for the potatoes to finish cooking, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this year the holidays wouldn't be quite as bad.