Conclusions
We walked down the steps of the courthouse side by side. For a moment, I forgot that we weren't really speaking. "Congratulations," he said, very softly.
"Thanks," I replied, and turned to go my way.
"Cara," he called, his voice carrying in the crisp air of early springtime. Against my will, my body turned to look at him. Odi et Amo. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"
I knew that question was coming, of course, but I still had no good response to give him. "I didn't really suspect it until after you'd broken up with me," I said with a hint of malice, slowly, allowing it to sink it. "And by then all of this started and I figured it didn't really matter anymore. If you'd wanted kids you would have had them thirty years ago."
He let that one go. "Was it mine?" Ever the detective, he was considering all the facts. To John Munch, my pregnancy was as likely a part of a government plot as it being his own naturally conceived child.
"Yes. Of course it was!" My head snapped up to stare at him, cold anger in my eyes. "You don't honestly think I could have cheated on you." His expression barely changed, but I knew what his thoughts were. "You did. You thought I was cheating on you?!"
He shook his head and shrugged. "I thought it an eminent possibility."
"This is ridiculous. I never so much as looked at another man. Not once."
"I would have taken care of you," he said over the tops of his glasses, deftly changing the subject.
"I don't want you to feel obligated to do a damn thing for me," I seethed.
"And I don't blame you for wanting to end it," he continued. "I just don't see why we have to end with contempt."
"Contempt?" I repeated. He was standing there on the steps, wearing sunglasses at night. I walked towards him, so I could see the expression on his face as he pulled them off and stuffed them into his pocket. I had always told him to do that more often - it took twenty years off of him.
"I still love you," he said, so softly that at first I wasn't really sure I had heard it. That was it for me, the very last bit: we had never before talked of love. I could no longer bear it. There were tears in his eyes, tears that I had put there with my anger and blame. He was right, of course: I should have told him about the baby. It had been unfair of me not to call him the minute they had told me I'd miscarried. All the grief I had gone through in private he was experiencing on the steps of a courthouse.
The pain that I had been through seemed to explode in that moment, and I began to weep the tears that had not come all these days of horrible trial. I wept for the breakup, the attack, Shawn's fall, Brian's sins - but most of all for the tiny future that had been stolen from within me. I could feel my mascara slide down my cheeks, and I buried my face in John's black dress shirt. His arms wrapped around me, hesitantly, as if he weren't quite sure what to do now, and I knew he was crying too.
"John, I have nothing but love for you," I said, after several moments. John is anything but a romantic, at least not in the same sense of the word that I cast myself as. He is moody and difficult, but when it comes down to it, he is also pragmatic and logical to a fault. I saw fit to remind him of that. "But it doesn't make sense for us to be together." He was silent: I knew the sound of the silence. He was stewing. "I love you. I have since the moment we met. I haven't wanted anyone else, and I wonder if I ever will."
His hair was falling over his brow, softening that all-cop look he liked to have. He kissed me, one of those intoxicating kisses that made me forget everything that had ever happened to me before. The moments passed, unreal, peaceful moments of retarded time and space. "Then why are we doing this?"
"Torturing ourselves, you mean?" I asked. God in Heaven, I loved him then. "Because I thought we were based on mutual admiration: respect, and acceptance of each other's faults as much as attraction. But you admitted that the years are too much for us. We can't sustain that level of intensity if I'm just a child to you."
"I never should have said what I said," he said, his New York accent showing. He was looking right into my eyes, as if he could see through them. I knew, of course, that this was about as close to an apology as I would ever get, and somehow it was enough. "Can we get a cup of coffee and talk?"
"Just talk?" I asked.
"Yeah. I think we have a lot to work out." I thought for a moment, though even now I'm not sure where my thoughts went, and then I nodded my consent. "Never underestimate the generosity of women," he said, reverently offering me his arm.
There was much to say but we were quiet in those moments then, each deep in our own thoughts and reflections. "No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face," I whispered before I could stop myself. I don't know if John heard me, but if he did he made no comment. And so we walked in the early springtime, the winter's last snowfall dusting our shoulders as the last tendril of purple cloud disappeared over the city.
The End.
We walked down the steps of the courthouse side by side. For a moment, I forgot that we weren't really speaking. "Congratulations," he said, very softly.
"Thanks," I replied, and turned to go my way.
"Cara," he called, his voice carrying in the crisp air of early springtime. Against my will, my body turned to look at him. Odi et Amo. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"
I knew that question was coming, of course, but I still had no good response to give him. "I didn't really suspect it until after you'd broken up with me," I said with a hint of malice, slowly, allowing it to sink it. "And by then all of this started and I figured it didn't really matter anymore. If you'd wanted kids you would have had them thirty years ago."
He let that one go. "Was it mine?" Ever the detective, he was considering all the facts. To John Munch, my pregnancy was as likely a part of a government plot as it being his own naturally conceived child.
"Yes. Of course it was!" My head snapped up to stare at him, cold anger in my eyes. "You don't honestly think I could have cheated on you." His expression barely changed, but I knew what his thoughts were. "You did. You thought I was cheating on you?!"
He shook his head and shrugged. "I thought it an eminent possibility."
"This is ridiculous. I never so much as looked at another man. Not once."
"I would have taken care of you," he said over the tops of his glasses, deftly changing the subject.
"I don't want you to feel obligated to do a damn thing for me," I seethed.
"And I don't blame you for wanting to end it," he continued. "I just don't see why we have to end with contempt."
"Contempt?" I repeated. He was standing there on the steps, wearing sunglasses at night. I walked towards him, so I could see the expression on his face as he pulled them off and stuffed them into his pocket. I had always told him to do that more often - it took twenty years off of him.
"I still love you," he said, so softly that at first I wasn't really sure I had heard it. That was it for me, the very last bit: we had never before talked of love. I could no longer bear it. There were tears in his eyes, tears that I had put there with my anger and blame. He was right, of course: I should have told him about the baby. It had been unfair of me not to call him the minute they had told me I'd miscarried. All the grief I had gone through in private he was experiencing on the steps of a courthouse.
The pain that I had been through seemed to explode in that moment, and I began to weep the tears that had not come all these days of horrible trial. I wept for the breakup, the attack, Shawn's fall, Brian's sins - but most of all for the tiny future that had been stolen from within me. I could feel my mascara slide down my cheeks, and I buried my face in John's black dress shirt. His arms wrapped around me, hesitantly, as if he weren't quite sure what to do now, and I knew he was crying too.
"John, I have nothing but love for you," I said, after several moments. John is anything but a romantic, at least not in the same sense of the word that I cast myself as. He is moody and difficult, but when it comes down to it, he is also pragmatic and logical to a fault. I saw fit to remind him of that. "But it doesn't make sense for us to be together." He was silent: I knew the sound of the silence. He was stewing. "I love you. I have since the moment we met. I haven't wanted anyone else, and I wonder if I ever will."
His hair was falling over his brow, softening that all-cop look he liked to have. He kissed me, one of those intoxicating kisses that made me forget everything that had ever happened to me before. The moments passed, unreal, peaceful moments of retarded time and space. "Then why are we doing this?"
"Torturing ourselves, you mean?" I asked. God in Heaven, I loved him then. "Because I thought we were based on mutual admiration: respect, and acceptance of each other's faults as much as attraction. But you admitted that the years are too much for us. We can't sustain that level of intensity if I'm just a child to you."
"I never should have said what I said," he said, his New York accent showing. He was looking right into my eyes, as if he could see through them. I knew, of course, that this was about as close to an apology as I would ever get, and somehow it was enough. "Can we get a cup of coffee and talk?"
"Just talk?" I asked.
"Yeah. I think we have a lot to work out." I thought for a moment, though even now I'm not sure where my thoughts went, and then I nodded my consent. "Never underestimate the generosity of women," he said, reverently offering me his arm.
There was much to say but we were quiet in those moments then, each deep in our own thoughts and reflections. "No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face," I whispered before I could stop myself. I don't know if John heard me, but if he did he made no comment. And so we walked in the early springtime, the winter's last snowfall dusting our shoulders as the last tendril of purple cloud disappeared over the city.
The End.