Disclaimer: Like I said last week. The fact that Liz was not featured was pure coincidence. Or so I would have you think.
Author's Note: Please explain to me, Oh Powers That Be at FF, why would you not let me post last night? If you weren't being incredibly slow, you were telling me that the format was not correct. Funny though, that this afternoon, you worked perfectly. You would think that after seven hours in the car to visit UVA you wouldn't do that to me. Simanis: Undying thanks! Anything in italics is a flashback.
Who doesn't love AC/DC?
"'Cause I'm back on the track…Well, I'm baaack, baaack…Well, I'm back in black"
-AC/DC-
Perhaps coming in today had been a mistake she thought as her fingers slipped down and off the metal door handle. The door had opened with barely any strength required on her part, and it now rested against her back, the cold metal seeping through the fabric of her clothes. Fumbling with her left hand, she pulled it shut with a firm snap, but remained leaning against it.
The lights had already been turned on and her eyes surveyed the space in her office, taking in everything, noting every small detail. Her office remained the same as she had last left it. The deep red paint cast a warm ambience with the glossy blacks and mercurial silvers complementing the varying objects and reflecting the fluorescent lighting. Behind her desk was the Japanese katana, sheathed in a bright gold, brought back after a trip four years ago, and there towards the back were her numerous bookshelves filled with her bountiful collection. The books were passed over and the last thing before the circuit was complete was her interactive whiteboard, red digital ink still on the white surface, providing the notes from their last case. Red letters of the alphabet ran together in stylized handwriting- her own-, and the names of the victims glared out at her.
A sudden tightening of her lungs had her gasping for breath; the air felt as if it was squeezing in on all sides of her. Seconds later, as she snapped shut her eyes, and the noise of the air conditioning kicking on had her jumping, sending the messages from the front secretary and her Birkin along with all of its contents to the floor.
Chastising herself for allowing something as abstract as the purposeful arrangements of the twenty six letters of the alphabet spook her, Peyton forced her eyes to open themselves from their tightly squeezed position. The names greeted her again and she made herself stare at them. Only when control over the functions of her body had been restored did she then bend down and reach for her fallen belongings. Pink slips were swept into a neat pile, the spilled contents of her purse dropped to the bottom.
The free fingers of her left hand closed over the facedown BlackBerry and she picked it up off the tile; a continuingly flashing looped fragment relayed the fact that she had a voicemail in her box.
Straightening up and ignoring the sting in her right arm, Peyton accessed the message. It seemed that while in her session this morning, she had missed an early call from her father.
His voice, coming out punctuated with static due to the three thousand mile difference, made her smile. Five days had hardly been enough time to catch up, but despite the shortness of the visit, it had been worthwhile and much had been gained from it. She had enjoyed being able to sleep well past nine and to wear nothing but an old tattered pair of jeans with her frayed Redskins sweatshirt and hair thrown up carelessly on top of her head, not having to worry about anyone besides her father seeing her.
Late night movie watching had given them the chance to restate an old tradition of theirs, complete with the terrible impressions from both parties. On a more serious note, and the real reason behind her departure from the City of Angeles to The District, the conversations with her father had been tremendously helpful at healing her.
One of those conversations had breached the subject of extending her short five day visit to a more indefinite time frame:
"It's a shame you weren't here for the blooming of the cherry blossoms."
Peyton walked alongside her father, good hand tucked into the pocket of her pants. The pebbles lining the encompassing pathway of the West Potomac Park scattered under their feet. The feeling was familiar and as she strolled she realized how much she did miss her home city.
Los Angeles had become her second home and she did love that city with its bright lights and exciting night life. But D.C. would always be her real home, and something about the sites and political atmosphere filled her when she returned.
Tourists, easy enough to spot by their open wonder at the memorials surrounding the pathway, moved around them, oblivious to the father and his daughter. One of her favorite past times as a teenager had been to come to The Mall area and watch the tourists; she would even admit to some that on a few occasions her and four other friends had given wrong directions just to see the look on the nonnatives' faces.
Smiling, she turned her head to look at her father as she walked. Catching her gaze, he too turned his head. Anyone who saw the two together could instantly realize the close relation. Damin Huntzberger, at fifty one and looking several years younger, was a tall man-it was still a mystery where the short gene had come from- with the same tawny blonde hair and piercing green eyes. As his daughter, she had inherited all of his physical traits, and also his mannerisms, not having another parent to imprint and learn from.
Peyton tucked a wayward strand of wind blown hair back behind her ear, nodding and saying, "I know. I haven't seen them in almost three years now."
Stopping, feet crunching on the small stones, he laughed and shook his head. He pointed over her shoulder at something, and she turned to see the white stone of the Jefferson Memorial across the tidal basin. "You used to love those trees. Every March I would take you over there. It had to be the Jefferson too. You didn't want to see them from The Mall or the Capitol. It had to be from the Jefferson," he said, smiling fondly at the memories.
It was her turn to laugh and she brought her arms up to cross over her chest. "I remember. And I would pick up the fallen petals and put them on top of my head. And you told me not to because it would make me sneeze—"
"And what happened? You did sneeze. Ended up driving your nose insane," her father finished for her.
They continued on their way down the well known path, curving around towards the War World II Memorial. A breeze blew and stirred the hair on her shoulders. She closed her eyes and simply took in the sounds, once again making the comparisons to the city she lived in now and the one from her childhood; the bubbling of the pool's water, several cameras of the disposable kind snapping all at once, muted sounds of the cars from nearby streets that were hidden from the sacred area…
…And the sound of the ever constant planes flying in to Ronald Reagan International. That hadn't changed over the last eleven years. Every twenty seconds a plane flew into that airport it seemed.
"What are you thinking about, P?"
Sure enough, as she opened her eyes, there went a seven-thirty-seven bound for the northern landing terminal.
The massive, low flying airliner disappeared from sight, and Damin replaced her focus. "Just thinking about how early I have to get up tomorrow."
Never subtle, his idealized job as one of D.C.'s finest and most powerful attorneys had taken care of that, he stopped against one of the pillars out of the way of the rush of high school students, and performed the same act of crossing his arms across his chest. "You know, sweetheart, you don't have to go back."
The high school students were in wonder over the splashing pool. "Dad, we already talked about this. I have to go back at some point. Five days is good enough and plus I'm tired of sitting around doing nothing. I need a case. Something to keep my hands busy with."
Damin Huntzberger fixed her with her patented gaze that she had naturally learned from him. Already wary of what he was about to say by that look, her suspicions were confirmed. "I'm not talking about staying for a few more days. I'm talking about coming back."
This was new. "You mean move back here?" he didn't say anything and that in Damin Huntzberger terms meant a big, fat, obvious yes. "I can't. I'm needed back where I am. I have people there. I have a job there. People are counting on me."
He shifted his arms, quieting down as a couple walked past arm in arm, and then started over. "Los Angeles got along just fine before you were there, Peyton. It will do just fine without you. You could work for the Jeffersonian Institute here. Or, if you didn't want to leave the FBI, you could easily get an office at the lab here."
Peyton shook her head, incredulous at where he was coming from. Part of her knew he was only worried as all fathers were, but still… He had to know that she wouldn't do that. "And what about Kathryn? She followed me out there. What am I supposed to tell her? 'Oops. I've decided to move back home, so I guess you'll just have to pack up your things and come home with me too'?"
True to his job at being able to come back with any rebuttal, her father had an answer for that. "You know that Kathryn would move back here in an instant as soon as you said you were. You know that."
Her head shook from side to side, and Peyton looked out at the people of D.C. Move back here? True she loved this city more than anything, but it just wasn't possible at this point. Los Angeles had infected her for the last eleven years. Its citizens counted on her to do her job. She had friends there. And there was something back there she was willing to take a chance on if it still was an opportunity after her return.
"I can't, Dad. I won't make Kathryn move again. I've made a commitment to my office and I have people back there who have become parts of who I am. I can't leave all that. It's not because I don't want to be here with you. I would if I could," her words were said with conviction, but tinted with sadness. She didn't want to hurt her father.
He sighed. "I figured as much. I just worry for you. I guess if I have you here, then I can watch over you and protect you better. I love you and as my duty as a parent, I'm bound to look after you. But, I also have to recognize what is best for you and if you truly believe that Los Angeles is where you belong, then I won't say anything else."
"Thank you, Daddy."
Uncrossing his arms, he eliminated the space between them and pulled her into a hug. After a moment, he leaned back, keeping one arm looped over her shoulders. A kiss was dropped onto the top of her hair, and he said while they walked the circle leading out of the memorial, "So, lunch over at the Capitol sound good? We can even stop by and say hello to our good old buddy Senator Nost. Lizzie told me he's not up to much today."
True to his word, her father hadn't revisited the subject about moving again. He had helped her check her bags and then regretfully said his farewells at the gate, making her promise to call as soon as she arrived home.
The full onset of the migraine that had been building since her shower at eight flared up, banging away inside her skull at a suddenly more rapid pace. Explained as a result from the withdrawal her body was going through with the absence of ketamine, the doctor had said that the pain would eventually fade, and that the fact that the migraines were becoming less frequent and less intense showed promise. Until then she would have to settle for regular over the counter pain medication.
Since she had quit taking the Vicodin prescribed for her wrist that meant that Peyton would have to substitute them with four to five aspirins. The in-office bottle of pills hadn't been touched for weeks, and sitting in the chair, her fingers reached into the back of the top left drawer and seized upon the medium sized plastic object. Five little pills were swallowed by themselves, chased down without water.
Resting both elbows on the surface, she rubbed her temples in small circles in an attempt to dissuade the pulsing and throbbing of her veins. With barely open eyes, Peyton reached out and depressed the power button on the monitor, closing her eyes once she heard the familiar humming of the machine.
Peyton recalled her recent memory, linking it with what had happened before she had snuck in unnoticed.
Her father had not been the only one with doubts about what was best when considering her work. Therapy had forced an uncomfortable discussion this morning, leaving her with doubts about herself that she had thought had been laid to rest:
"Good morning, Dr. Melonie," she sang out. Cheerfully, Peyton dropped into her now usual leather chair. Her purse was set aside, and while putting one leg over the other knee the muscles in her throat swallowed down a long drag from the still warm coffee.
Dr. Melonie had been recommended by Dr. Funk and some digging done on her part had revealed that the relatively young psychiatrist was a highly reputable man with a specialty in dealing with cases like hers.
She had been skeptical at first as was only natural; however, after several sessions, his reputation had been found to be sound. Many of the last three days had been recalled in bits and fragments, enough for her to piece together the outline of what had happened. The filling on the inside still needed some work and the time line was a bit shaky, but for the most part she knew what had been done, and she most certainly could remember the faces.
Dr. Melonie closed the door, giving them some semblance of privacy from the other doctors and patients crowded in the receptionist's area. His narrow set hazel eyes pointedly looked at the cardboard cup she was sipping from. "Good morning to you too, Peyton. Did you take my recommendation?"
Peyton eyed him over the small sliver of steam rising from the tiny hole in the lid as he settled himself down in the chair opposite of her, notepad resting ominously on his thighs. "You mean your advice that since I won't cut out caffeine completely I should drink disgusting decaf instead?"
He nodded and clicked the end of his pen, looking down at his pad, writing utensil now poised at the ready.
"Absolutely not."
Having quickly gotten used to her by now, the psychiatrist only shook his head, a small smile forming. Bemused, he changed the subject and formally started the session. "So, you arrived back home last night and judging by your exuberance displayed as you entered, I assume that you had no problems with your flight," he raised his head for the first time, looking directly at her. "How was your trip?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Fine."
The pen moved. He made a humming noise in the back of his throat. "Just fine? In our last session, we decided that you going back to D.C. would be a chance for you to gain the support of your family that you couldn't get while here," he blinked at her before continuing," Damin Huntzberger is your living parent, I believe you told me. You were there for five days, and you're telling me that the time you spent with him was 'just fine'?"
Cautiously, Peyton straightened and considered what he was trying to get at before answering. "Well, yeah, I spent those five days with him, but it's not like we did anything extraordinary, unless you count watching the complete series of the Godfather. I mostly slept and spent the time relaxing."
Again the pen moved. "Uh-hunh. And did you talk with your father?"
"Of course we talked."
"I mean, did you talk about anything specific? Anything noteworthy? Anything you want to talk about?" Dr. Melonie peered over the space at her, waiting for an answer.
"Specific? What are you trying to get at? Are you trying to get me to say that we talked about what happened with me?"
He stopped moving the pen, pausing in mid thought. Sighing, he stated bluntly, "You're being passive aggressive again, attempting to play your game to get around answering my question, so that I will simply send you on your way with a referral that you are quote 'good to go'. Your evasiveness at both answering the question you know I am asking and the whole point of this session, is exemplary of what you exhibited your first day in my office. As I have to come to see, when you, Peyton, try to outwit someone into giving them a different answer than what they seek, it most almost always means that you actually have something that is bothering you."
"And I suppose your fancy degree taught you that?" she added, snarky now that this was not going the way she had wanted. Dr. Melonie had to sign off on the sheet declaring her mentally fit to return to work before the Director would allow her back.
Unfazed, he replied, "Yes it did. Now, you want to try again. What happened in D.C.?"
Perhaps unloading on the poor man could actually help, after all she did pay him several hundred dollars an hour to listen to her; she might as well use him. Not to mention, that the several hour long flight had been spent playing mediator between her id and ego.
"My father wants me to move back home," she fiddled with the wrist band of her watch, sliding it round and round. "He's concerned for me. For when I go back to work. He thinks I should move back there, so that I can take it easier."
"That sounds reasonable. Like you said I'm sure that he is just worried for how you are going to handle going back to your job. He sounds like any other loving parent."
"Yeah, I know."
He tilted his head to one side, and queried, "I know that since you returned you obviously declined his offer, but how did that make you feel to have him say that?"
"I was upset. I can't possible leave Los Angeles. Too many people count on me, and I have a good job. I hold a tremendous amount of weight and credit with where I am and what I do. So, yeah, I was upset that he would think that I needed to leave all of that behind," she faltered, sudden insight of the plane ride's debate beginning to make some sense, "But, I was also upset with myself. I hadn't thought that maybe—"
"He might be right?"
Peyton looked up at him. The psychiatrist looked back at her with a sad smile. "Yeah. I mean what if he is right? What if I can't handle it? What if it's too much?" she fired off the three questions, a hint of desperation in her voice as she clasped her hands over her knees and leaned forward. "What if I fail?"
"Would that be so bad?" he asked, calm despite her growing restlessness.
Her voice rose in volume. "Of course it would. I don't handle failure very well, being as that I usually don't set myself up to fail very often. I don't think that I could deal with that."
"You very well might fail, Peyton. Nobody said that it wasn't going to be hard for you to go back to doing your job. Nobody expects you to jump straight back into it and be absolutely perfect. You faced a tremendous experience that stemmed from what you do. Obviously that is going to affect your work, and it's going to take some time before you get back to where you were," he finished, leading her into what he wanted next.
After a moment she spoke again. "I know. I guess I would want it to be like that. To pretend like none of this ever happened, but it's not like that and it did happen. Despite that though, I do think that I'm ready to go back. I mean, I can't sit around…"
"I agree."
"…I can't sit around forever, hiding out. I have to come back at some point. Wait, what did you say?" Peyton halted in mid argument, ending her explanations as to why he should agree with her about going back to work.
He laughed. "I said I agree too. I think you are ready to go back as well."
"You do?" She was confused, having expected a flat negative.
Dr. Melonie nodded, laying his pen down for the first time. "I do. Ultimately, Peyton, you are the best judge for yourself. You know if you are ready to go back to work. Granted, if you had not come in here today and told me that you had doubts about yourself, I would have probably been more inclined to say that you needed more time until you figured that out."
"But you think that I can go back?" If he was lying she would waste her morning fix by throwing it in his face.
"I do. It's going to be hard, but I have heard that you have friends that can act as a support network should you need it. I will sign your release," he held up a hand to forestall her thanks, "On two conditions. The first is that you will take it slow. That means I expect office work instead of field work. Yes, that means doing your office job of paperwork and budgets. Boring I know, but it will help you adjust and sort out any problems you do have. Second, I expect you to continue our sessions. I expect to see you every four days as we have been doing, and the first time you draw back into yourself like you did at the beginning, you can bet on it that I will immediately call the Director."
So here she was, sitting behind her desk, head slowly killing her, and trying to sift through the seemingly endless amounts of paperwork that had accumulated to find something that remotely sounded interesting.
Peyton pursed her lips, chewing on the bottom one. Nixing the ones that were dull, she turned them over to save for another day. Like when she wanted to bore herself to death, or when she ultimately had to do them. The budget proposal for the new DNA equipment was due on the Supervisor's desk by the end of the week, but that would only require thirty minutes of her time. Mediating between a claim by the Internal Affairs office and the head medical examiner sounded just as dull as the quarterly audit that Washington wanted.
After a few more discarded folders, she finally came across something that was actually appealing. Deciding that it would take the longest amount of time, Peyton pulled off the paper clip and began scanning down the names. A position needed filling in the ballistics lab, and that would be interesting, seeing as that she had began her lab career with a unique passion for that area.
Settling down, each resume was scanned multiple times by her eyes. Every now and then Peyton would jot down a name to come back to later, and as she went on her migraine waned.
"It seems the rumors were true."
Dropping her pen in surprise at the unexpected voice, Peyton tore her eyes away from candidate number twelve, a twenty three year old from Dubuque.
"What rumors?" she asked, smiling at the person in her doorway.
Don grinned, shrugging his shoulders as he walked forward. Choosing the seat across from her desk, he sat before saying, "Oh, just that the Assistant Supervisor snuck in late this morning through the back basement stairwell in an attempt to get into her office undetected."
Number twelve from Dubuque was forgotten in favor of someone far more interesting to her. "It would seem that my plan didn't work out as well as I had hoped."
"Nah. The secretary just talks too much," the smile diminished somewhat, and he nodded towards her. "I see you're back. You doing okay?"
"I was cleared this morning, provided I agree to the stipulation to take it slow and remain in the office for a while. That means no field work for me. Only my chair and fluorescent lighting to keep me company."
The grin was back and oh how nice that smile was. Was there anyone whose eyes crinkled quite like that?
"Here. This might help," Don said, placing a white cup on the edge of her desk.
She reached out and her hand closed around the base, watching as he lifted an identical one to his lips. The strong aroma of finely grounded beans wafted through her nostrils.
Peyton grinned and took a sip. Fixing him with a look, she said her thanks, adding on something that he probably wouldn't understand and laughing when his face scrunched up in confusion.
"Now, my psychiatrist would be very upset with you."
Sigh. See, it's sad that there is only one left to go. But, I did write a lovely piece about Colby and I posted that, and I also was inspired on my UVA trip to do a one shot college piece about the two Eppes brothers.
Final Chapter: Entitled Somewhere Over The Rainbow.
One question that I do ask: Do the songs do anything for you guys?
Background Information:
D.C.- Washington D.C. is perhaps one of my favorite cities of all time. It's beautiful and rich in history and culture. The atmosphere of politics is something that I thrive on and that is always there. The Cherry Blossoms do bloom in March; they are absolutely lovely to see. Highly recommend that to anyone. I prefer to see them from the north end of The Mall, where The Capitol building is.