Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: The title is from Walt Whitman's poem, A Promise to California which is from the collection of poems "Leaves of Grass".
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Sojourning East
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He stares at the ceiling above his head with contempt, as though it is the source of his thorough unhappiness. The lies that make up his everyday life are unraveling against the rental-white.
The front he's learned to hide behind comes undone at dusk, little by little and they blame it on stress at the end of the day. Calleigh and Eric dismissing it as though it were nothing; their boss takes a bit longer to convince until he sees the etched lines of exhaustion on his face.
He's become quite good at faking his expressions and contentment was his crowning achievement.
His wardrobe at work has changed to befit his new self. He doesn't wear his grudge shirts there very much anymore, because Horatio frowns when he does and the Captain told him a while back that he looks unprofessional.
If they only knew how professional he was/is/will be.
A pitiful smile crosses his lips at the thought, as he fingers the edge of a seldom worried-about scar on his arm. Hidden by dress shirts now, no one can see it – no longer does he scour stores in search of the hard-to-remove concealer that used to hide it so very well. Although, he's quite sure that just once his coworkers saw it since these days they avoid touching that part of his skin like the plague were localized to that one area.
Tiredly, he rises from the bed he had stretched out on, glaring at the pills on his nightstand. The ones that the therapist said would help yet don't.
The balcony beckons.
He listens to the siren's call and steps through the open doorway. He's a walk away from the water and he hears the rushing of the waves as they crash against the sand. Several teenagers, probably too drunk or high or both to realize that the cops patrol every half-hour after dark, are laughing and yelling. Ah, Homecoming night.
A car screeches down the road and he thinks to himself to look at it, as surely he'll be staring at the driver's body tomorrow. It blares its horn at some hapless pedestrian before careening further into Miami's club atmosphere.
The warm chill of an ocean-borne wind breezes over him.
He swears he hears his friend's voice…
…Then her whispered welcome to join the choir invisible is over and his brain ignores it. Sarai's disembodied speech comes to him now and then, a ghost of the time she pleaded him to help her die in those first few miserable days following the accident.
A knock at the door distracts him and he looks down to see the H2 parked impeccably beside his seemingly clown-like car.
This day had been coming for many weeks. He knew it had only been a matter of time that the higher ups would let his behaviors go, believing that he was perfectly fine.
A slip up in analysis or outburst of truant emotion and the redhead would be standing outside his wooden door, knocking just below the 1S that identified his apartment – as he apparently is.
The New York born decides to pretend this isn't happening and watches the moon as it stands stoic, gazing and grazing light at the measly occupants of Earth.
Yells begin to accompany the pounding.
Still he pretends that there's only silence, only the music starts in his mind. Sweet techno playing in his mind like it did months ago when he was Eric's best friend.
The phone rings, stops, rings again. Incessantly.
Keys click into the lock and the super sticks his head into the studio apartment as he pushes open the door to let in the Lieutenant.
Speedle doesn't move, even as he feels the eyes boring into his very soul and he knows that he looks meek hunched at the balcony rail. H wards off his known-to-be-overzealous landlord, coming to stand beside his subordinate.
A comforting hand comes down on his shoulder, "Tim."
Quiet murmurings for isolation.
"Tim."
Never stopping his lips movement, he quickly reassembles his shattered self into some semblance of normalcy and his tone raises to respond, "Hey, H. Sorry about that."
He slips away from the appendage, moving quickly toward the kitchen island where cans of Coca-Cola and Pepsi are scattered like they were pebbles plunked into a stream.
"Tim."
The elder man is trying to garner his friend's attention to no avail, sighing as he stares at the haunted brown eyes that he did not see until this morning between coffee sips.
A drink is poured into a paper cup from the counter near the sink. The others are piled neatly into pyramids from a late night insomnia binge.
"Tim, would you please look at me?"
Obeyed and eyes lay on his boss, "Yes?"
"How are you doing?" Probing question to gauge responses, like he does with the suspects during interrogation. Gentle, calm, believing until informed otherwise.
"I'm fine."
"Speed…"
"Listen, H, if this has to do with just now, I'm sorry again. I was outside and I really wasn't paying attention to anything." He says, hopeful it will appease the man.
A shake of the head kills that notion, "No, this is about the things I should have been noticing with you. The door…it's a culmination of them. So you want to tell me how you're really doing?"
The younger male shrugs, "I'm tired. I could use a couple of days off, but I'll be fine until I can get them."
Measuring to see if the truth is being told, Horatio backed off, "Calleigh asked me to give this to you." He hands a piece of wrung paper across the island.
Hesitant hands open the folded note and there on the mustard yellow background are the words he'd wanted hear from her lips for days.
I forgive you.
A tear tracks down his face, to splatter on the wheat-colored carpet and that pitiful smile from earlier return, only it deepens and becomes something truer, "I…uh…I have to make a call."
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow." He phrases it as a statement with an air of inquisition and there's a nod to tell him that there will continue to be the correct number of people running through his lab the next day. He leaves while the phone is picked up from it's place beneath the couch.
The place he threw it that terrible, biting night.
Outside, the waves continue to crash oblivious in a staccato rhythm. His mind deduced a storm at sea as the call was punched through the lines to her end, where she doubtlessly was waiting.
He is unsurprised when it only takes ten seconds for her voice to worriedly call his name.
And that's when he realizes that his lies and covers and disillusionment are nothing more then pains from the past, casing him in to keep him drowning in fear.
She's his way out. She's the one who can save him from himself when life creeps up behind him like a trained spy with piano wire.
Her spirit calms with the promise that she is aware of it too.
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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*
angelusaquiluscaelitus@hotmail.com