Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, and no profit is made from these stories. (But I do have fun writing them: )
For AnimalTalker.
The rain started just as the service was ending, as though the angels themselves were protesting the tragedy that had unfolded. It drove away most of the mourners, who filed into black towncars and headed off to resume their lives as though a young life had never been cut short by shattered glass and crushed steel somewhere in the Village.
Only two lone figures remained, despite the downpour. Even the gravediggers, who had quietly stood by during the short service, had taken flight; it was no use for them to try to work in these conditions.
Ben had stood at the very edge of the crowd, as far from everyone else as he could get without making a curiosity of himself. This was no longer his home; he simply couldn't bear to stand next to those he once knew, as though he himself had never taken flight from his job and the burden of perfection that he had finally cracked under.
As though he had never taken flight from Claire. If he hadn't, she'd still be his. Hell, she'd still be alive, instead of in a wooden casket ten or so feet from where he stood.
But no, Ben couldn't bear to see her work alongside Jack McCoy. Claire had professed to love him, but he knew fully well that McCoy was everything he wasn't. The type who effortlessly attracted women like a magnet attracts paperclips. All one had to do was look at his previous assistants for proof.
It was inevitable. So he gave up, booking a flight to Europe. And in doing so, he had guaranteed her demise.
Because if I'd stayed, McCoy would have had to find someone else to take his drunken carcass home.
The rain offered the perfect camouflage, just like in the old Everly Brothers song. Ben couldn't hold back anymore. He began to cry, choking back loud sobs, knowing that the sheer volume of his grief wouldn't appease the gods. Nothing would bring Claire back.
Besides, he wasn't alone. There was still someone else standing at the other end of the cemetery, who seemed to be watching him. Ben could barely make out anything through his burning eyes and the rain, but the figure seemed familiar. And it was moving closer.
Please go away. I don't need company right now.
His silent prayer went unanswered. The man approached Ben, his face becoming recognizable despite the unrelenting shower. It was like looking into a mirror; the expression of blame was identical to the one that Ben had been living with ever since this nightmare had begun.
Embarrassed, Ben reached into his drenched pocket for his reading glasses. He knew that putting them on was ridiculous, especially in the storm, but right now he was looking for anything to conceal the fact that he had been crying. The rain began to pelt him harder, fat drops falling on him with the weight of pebbles. But he didn't care. It seemed that nothing mattered anymore.
"Detective."
"Counselor."
Then they both fell silent. Briscoe stood there for a few moments, regarding him. His chiseled face betrayed a deeper understanding than just that of a former colleague sharing a loss. The realization hit Ben harder than the rain: Briscoe knew.
"Come on, Stone," the detective said, putting an arm around him. "This might be our next stop if we don't get out of this rain."
finis