Title: Equations

Spoiler: a Tree Falls

Pairing: M/S

A/N: scribbled this down during physics large group so probably doesn't make much sense but ::shrug::

Viv stopped by his desk and words were exchanged.

They talked quietly but it was easy to guess what the conversation was about, judging from what had happened earlier today and now, the paper he was holding in his hands.

Vivian was out of sight now, and he looked down on those papers again.

Just a few weeks ago I was doing the exact same thing: sitting in my chair, staring down at reports I had to fill out, picturing how it would go when I have to deal with the OPR, and trying to make myself sound reasonable and calm.

And as many people who considered themselves "experienced" in some ways, part of me just couldn't allow myself sitting here and watching him struggle alone.

So I approached his desk and asked him how was he doing.

He smiled humorlessly and told me that man deserved it for what he had done, but he wasn't looking at me and I could tell that he had doubts regarding to the action he took earlier today.

I could see him fighting with his conscience, trying to justify what he did to reach a peace in his mind.

Oh Martin. If you'd just understand.

For every action there must be a reaction.

If you restate the equation, you could say that for every bullet you spend there must be a consequence.

But there was no need to make the consequence always a suffering.

I wanted to reach out for his hand and tell him that everything was going to be okay, that what he did was absolutely right and the OPR couldn't ever pin anything down on him. I wanted to tell him that Franco Reyes had it coming, harming innocent children to make sure he could get the payments from their parents.

And I wanted to tell him that I thank the Lord with all my heart that Reyes had only a knife instead of a gun.

And a second equation could be derived this way; his shattered bone, my shattered heart.

But I was afraid that if the words just came tumbling out of me, he would just look up at me in a cold, strange way as his mind attempted to analyze each and every single word, and eventually decide to file them into the "nonsense" cabinet.

So I chose the safer option; I suggested that we go get a drink.

But he said that he needed to finish the report.

Of course.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

How could you fail to realize that in Martin Fitzgerald's world, work is always the top priority?

So I got up, said good night, and left him in front of his desk, staring at his report as if he was a student attending a mathematics exam and those pages were his review book, his bible on the subject.

And that left me driving home, trying to get my equations in order so I could solve this even more complicated problem step by step.

And maybe when the shooting crisis is over for both of us, one of us would have the courage

to take the equations and fit in the variables, and find a beautifully simple, perfect solution.

***

Told you it wouldn't make much sense.