Here We Go
Setting: "Waiting to Exhale"

A/N: This merges into the canon sequence.

I exit the stall, walk over to the sink, pull the tab for hot water. Wait for it to actually get hot. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I pause, pull my hair back, brush away a speck of loose mascara. And because this is the second time I've been alone since the meeting, barely a half an hour ago, I'm still thinking obsessively about it.

"I'm just not sure you're ready to be back, especially not out on active duty."

There's steam drifting up from the faucet. I dip my hands under, hiss out a breath at the heat, reach for some soap. As I scrub I'm back there again, sitting across from Pascal's desk, LaGuerta beside me.

"What do you think?" Pascal asked me.

"I want to be here, Lieutenant. I'm ready to be here. I've done everything I can to prove that it's time for me to come back."

I don't know why when I walked in there I didn't expect LaGuerta to railroad me. For some reason I thought I'd gotten through to her last night. It wasn't until that precise moment, when Pascal looked between us, that it finally occurred to me how close I am to the edge. After I found Tucci in that hospital basement, I mostly stopped worrying that LaGuerta was waiting for any excuse to punt me out of the department. That at some point along the way we'd hammered out an understanding, maybe even a modicum of mutual respect. But in that pause I felt that assurance peel away. I suddenly felt just as vulnerable as I did when I'd first gotten Matthews to temporarily transfer me over here, candy-coated as I was in the hooker suit.

"I understand where both of you are coming from," Pascal said eventually. "I also recently came back from extended leave, and I remember how difficult it was to readjust. That's actually part of the reason I transferred out of Ft. Lauderdale. I was never really able to reacclimate. Something about being around all those old, familiar people and things always brought me right back to the shooting. I don't know whether or not it's going to end up being the same way for you."

"It won't," I replied, the shreds of my dignity only just barely preventing me from begging with her outright. "It's a relief to be back. These past two days have done more for me than a month and a half of sitting around combing over my feelings. This is where I need to be to be able to move past what happened."

I finally pull my hands out of the water, shut off the faucet. My skin is hot and red and angry but it feels kind of good. I grab some paper towels.

I can't stop wondering if there's something more I could've said, something better. Just… anything.

But even if what I said did suck, when Pascal spoke again it at least wasn't to throw me back out of the job. "Alright. I can see how much you want to be here and I'm not going to argue with you. We all deal with things in different ways. But I have to warn you, Officer Morgan, I'll be watching you closely. Because I do agree with Maria— it's my responsibility to keep the officers in my command and the people in my district safe, and last night you violated that. I'm putting my faith in you that that was a one-time incident."

"Thank you. I promise I won't let you down, Lieutenant."

I shove the door open, hearing my own stupid words echo back at me again and again. And my fucking elbow still hurts.

Rubbing it angrily, I stop beside the vending machines. For a protracted moment I just stand here and stare at it, some small, distant percentage of my mind wanting something. As I start digging around my pockets in the hope of finding some change, I hear the hum of voices to the left, down the hall.

My hand slides out of my pocket as I turn to see Matthews surrounded by a clump of guys in suits. They're all standing on the other side of the double doors where the rest of Violent Crimes lives. He's talking to the tallest of the bunch: a wiry, whispy-haired, old guy. Even from this far away, I can spot the shine of golden badges.

A new thought cracks through the spiral.

The F-B-fucking-I.

I remember last night at the bar Masuka and Batista saying that the Butcher is going to end up a federal case. Masuka wouldn't shut the fuck up about the fact that they'd asked him to help sift through some of the shit they pulled from the water, though I tuned out most of his babbling. Even if I'd cared about what he was talking about, for some reason this news meant only one thing to me: those bodies in the bay must not have been left there by the Ice Truck Killer. Somehow they must've figured that out. Otherwise why would they call out the feds?

I stare at them, my chest filling with all that weird, selfish hope. Because somehow I've become such a fuck up that the knowledge that there's some other serial killer running around Miami who I'm not currently having sex with takes away some of the pressure.

Suddenly, I remember something else. A name. Lundy. Batista said he was a profiler or something, that he's the one they're bringing in to lead the investigation, but he didn't really know anything else about him.

I start walking in their direction, wanting to get back to my desk. I try not to watch them openly as I approach, but they're not looking toward me anyway. They're all focused on what the old guy is saying.

Maybe that's him, that Lundy guy.

The temptation to stop and eavesdrop niggles at me as I reach the doors that'll lead me back, but, before I can decide whether or not I want to try, I hear Matthews' voice cut over the background noise.

"Alright," he says. "Let's go meet everyone."

I'm spurred away from where I paused, start moving rapidly down the hall. I really don't want to run into the whole pack of them alone in the hallway.

Tugging at my badge, I walk into the pen. "Captain's coming up with that FBI guy," I announce. Everyone looks up and over at me. "He's got a fucking entourage." Saying nothing else, I drop behind my desk, gaze glued in the direction I just came from. Within moments of my ass hitting the cushion, Matthews is opening the door. The agents stream down the hall without him.

For a beat we all watch them go, their arrival having effectively paralyzed the entire division.

"Alright, listen up, everyone," Matthews says, drawing our attention back to him. "Briefing room in two minutes for show and tell." He looks around the room, kind of glances at me, then leaves to join the suits in the other room. It occurs to me that he may've spotted me watching them earlier.

I hear a slight noise, the rustling of paper, turn to see Dexter standing behind me, both hands locked around a folder. He looks a little… I don't know. Stiff or something. Behind him, I can see Masuka staring longingly toward the briefing room.

"Here we go," I say, maybe to my brother, maybe just to myself.

He looks down at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Yeah," he says after a beat. "Here we go."