Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N Also goes with the challenge 'Family'.
He closes the door behind him and then leans against it, making sure his head hits hard on the wood. There's a jangle as the keys fall from his hand and hit the wood floor. Eyes are closed, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. He tries to calm himself by breathing slowly, but still, he can feel his blood raging through his body. Squinting his eyes, he still can't make himself calm and bangs his fists back against the door, hard. A tear slips down his face, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. There's no one to see him cry. No one to watch him finally break down and give in. No one.
There are more tears now, sliding down his from his bloodshot eyes and tickling his cheek as they slip down and finally fall from his chin to splash down his front. The heat has been turned down the past three days and as the paths left by the tears dry, a shiver passes over him, despite his jacket and scarf. Still, he stands there, propped up by the door that locks him in, shivering more as the minutes tick by. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore. None of it matters because there's no one to care. Not anymore.
He's shivering uncontrollably now, his coat doing nothing to help, just a piece of cloth thrown over his shoulders. Arms are bent, pressed to his sides involuntarily from his body trying to keep him warm. The shape of his gun presses against his right arm, a cold, hard metal weapon digging into his elbow. He forces his hands to move, undoing his belt buckle, pulling it out of the loops in his pants, sliding the gun in it's holster off the belt. He holds it, eyes still closed, leaving the gun in the holster, not trusting himself to pull it out.
Slowly, he opens his eyes and looks at the dark apartment before him. The darker patches that indicate a doorway, a piece of furniture, the tunnel that leads to his bedroom and bathroom. Standing straight, belt in one hand, gun in the other, he walks through the darkness to his desk, laying the gun on it, carefully placing his belt on the back of the chair. There are a few pictures on the wall around the desk and in picture frames propped on the desk. A surge of anger suddenly overcomes the shivering and he reaches for the nearest picture, throwing it across the room and listening as the hard frame thumps on the floor and the cracking and shattering of the glass as the frame breaks. He reaches for the next nearest picture, throwing that one as well and listening again as it smashes to a million pieces on the floor, mimicking his heart.
He's taking the pictures off the desk, not even looking at them before throwing them and hearing them shatter. Hearing his soul break. There are no pictures left on the desk so he reaches for the one on the wall, and he can make out two figures standing together before he throws that too. Soon, all that is left are lonely picture hooks on the wall and clean spots on the desk where the dust hadn't been able to rest because of the pictures occupying them. Surveying the broken glass and scattered frames with pictures hanging from them, he quickly turns his back on them, not wanting to see his heart strewn before him.
An idea taking hold of him, he heads into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of beer and heading back into the living room to collapse on the coach. He isn't as cold anymore, the small physical exertion of throwing things having warmed him up a bit. He opens the bottle and swallows a mouthful, feeling the cold liquid go down his throat before coming to rest in his stomach. Soon, he gets up for another beer, trying not to think of the consequences. Thinking only of the here and now. Here in his cold apartment. Now in his shock and pain filled mind.
She pounds on his door, calling his name and praying to any god that might exist he was home. That he wasn't doing something stupid. She pounds again, then decides to try the knob, though not expecting much. When it opens, she is both surprised and worried. Why would he not lock his door?
Stepping into the apartment and closing the door slowly behind, she calls out his name again. She stands, waiting for a reply, finding it isn't much warmer in here than it is outside. She walks farther into the apartment, then pauses as she sees the broken and scattered frames on the floor. It's then that she looks over at the couch and sees him curled up, still in his coat, sleeping. Walking over, she stands in front of him, taking in the stubble covering his chin and cheeks. His glasses are still on.
"John, c'mon, wake up." She shakes his shoulder and he stirs. "John."
As he wakes, he blinks owlishly at her as he tries to sit up. "What're ya doin' here?" He sounds exhausted and she knows he hasn't slept, really slept, for days.
"I came to check on you. When you left the hospital..." She leaves the sentence hanging, almost afraid of his reaction. He only puts his head in his hands, elbows digging into his thighs. She sits beside him. "It wasn't your fault, John."
"I shoulda been in that door before Cap. I shoulda been shot. Right now, I should be lying in that goddamned hospital with a bullet in my chest, not Cap. I should have a shattered elbow, two bullets in my gut, and one in the chest."
"John, there was no way you could've known what would've happened."
He's quiet, but before she can question him, or reassure him again, she hears a sob and watches as his body shakes. Without a second thought, she pulls him to her and he turns his face into her chest, crying. Stroking his hair, she rubs his back with the other hand. There's nothing to say so she remains silent, focusing all her energy into comforting him. Into trying to soothe his pain and guilt away, something she knows will never be gone completely, but she can try.
As his crying tapers off, he remains with his head resting against her chest. She doesn't stop her movements of stroking his hair, but she stops rubbing his back, instead using that arm to hug him to her. "Let's get you to bed." She prods him to stand before leading him down the hallway to his bedroom.
Before sitting on the bed, she helps him take his jacket off. Then removes his already loosened tie from about his neck. Gently, she pulls his shirt from his pants and unbuttons it for him. Glancing around, she finds his dresser and goes over, finding a sweatshirt and takes it back to where he's sitting in a daze on the bed. She takes his work shirt off and then helps him pull the sweatshirt over his head. Finally, she removes his glasses and sets them on his nightstand. "C'mon," she says softly and lays him down, pulling the blankets over him.
Satisfied, she turns away and goes back into the living room, turning on the light and turning up the heat. She goes into the kitchen, turning the light on there as well, then begins a search for a broom and pan to brush the broken fragments in the living room onto. She drags the garbage pail from where it sits into the living room and carefully takes the broken frames and puts them in. A couple still have pictures in them and she takes them out, placing them on the side. Going back into the kitchen, she retrieves the broom she had left leaning against the wall before returning to the battlefield of his living room. Carefully, she sweeps the glass shards into the garbage, picking up more pictures as she goes.
Finshing up, she places the garbage pail back in the kitchen and gathers the scattered beer bottles on the counter. It's considerably warmer and she shuts off the light in the kitchen, walking back into his bedroom to check on him. He's fast asleep, huddled underneath the blankets. She smiles to herself, a sad smile, and returns to the living room to sit on the couch and watch TV, knowing that she won't be able to fall asleep.
Then she remembers the pictures sitting on the coffee table and picks them up. The first is a picture of John and Fin, in uniform and smiling. From the items in the background, she deduces it must be some award ceremony. The next is one of Olivia and Elliot, also in uniform and she can see Fin in the background talking to someone. Then, there's one of John and Olivia, and he has his arm around her shoulder, hugging her closer. She smiles a bit. He always acted like a big brother around Olivia, though he wouldn't like anyone to think so. Next, Elliot and Fin are smiling up at her. Then comes the whole squad, including her, standing together in Elliot's backyard and all dressed casually, all smiling and laughing. She remembers that day and smiles again, remembering the laughs they had shared as they ate barbecued food and drank beer and soda.
Setting down the photos, she stares at the one of all of them, smiling up at her. She wonders if they'll ever get together like that again. Ever gather at someone's house just to hang out. To eat, to drink, to have good times and make a few memories. And she wants to, so bad, because right now, it's all she has to hang on to. All that John has to hang on to. That picture, that moment frozen in time, is all either of them have. The only chance of survival.
Before she realizes it, she's standing in his doorway, looking at his sleeping form. Walking over, she sits beside him and thinks of how different he looks when he's sleeping. Peaceful and free of the torments he carries in his eyes and in his posture. Setting the picture she'd carried in next to his glasses, she takes one more look at him before returning to the living room to sleep on the couch.
He wakes slowly, wondering how he got in bed with a sweatshirt on and under the covers without his coat on. Sitting up, he rubs his eyes and it all comes rushing back. He resists the urge to fall back and try to go back to sleep, just to forget it all. Instead, he puts his glasses on and notices the picture laying beside them. He picks it up, closing his eyes for a moment before looking back at it. It hurts to look at it, but he holds on to it as he walks down the hallway and into the living room. The broken frames are picked up and there she is, sleeping on his couch.
Walking into the kitchen, he turns on the light and sets about making hot water for tea. When it is ready, he walks back into the living, two steaming mugs in his hands. She's still asleep, so he sets them on the coffee table and sits in the small space on the couch where her body isn't covering it. "Hey, sleepyhead, wake up."
She groans and rubs her still closed eyes before opening them to look at him. "You're awake."
"Nope, sleeping with my eyes open." It was so easy to fall back. So easy. If it was only that easy to get back up, he thinks bitterly.
"I cleaned up last night after--" she pauses to yawn, "--after I put you in bed."
Wise ass comment, wise ass comment... "Thanks." They're quiet for a moment. "I found the picture you left on my nightstand."
"Oh, yeah. Forgot about that." He knows she hasn't, not really.
"Last night... when I came home... I couldn't do anything... I just... I broke down. I couldn't stand those pictures. It was dark and I couldn't see them, but still... they were there." He focuses on the liquid in his mug. "You guys... you're my family. I just... I don't want to lose them, y'know? I can't lose them." He takes a deep breath before taking a swig of tea, letting the hot liquid burn it's way down.
"The doctors said they might wake up by this morning. You wanna go see them? I'll drive you."
He looks at her. "Yeah." After a moment more of looking at her blue eyes, "Thanks."