One day later…

d2: + 2 years, 4 months

d3: − 8 months

Part XIV: Finished

Nick fumbled around with his key and after several attempts finally managed to get it inside the slot, that seemed smaller all of a sudden. Something was wrong here. He usually didn't have such problems getting into his apartment. Then again, the fact that he was drunk might have something to do with it.

He walked inside and kicked the door shut behind him, tossing the keys onto a sideboard. Strangely enough they landed some feet away from it but who cared. They wouldn't grow legs and walk out on him over night. He chuckled at the idea though, picturing it in his fuzzy head. Yeah, yeah, keys with legs…

He peeled the jacket off his shoulders and continued his way through the apartment, getting a glass of water in the kitchen. He should probably have an aspirin with that to avoid the headache in the morning. It had worked when he had been a student. Then again, maybe the headache would remind him never to drink again.

Sure, he thought, and walked over to the couch, falling more than sitting down on it, managing though not to spill the water. He emptied the glass and lowered it again, letting it slide out of his hand and roll over the upholstery. He knew he would care too much about the leather if he was sober. He tilted his head back, sinking deeper into the cushions, and closed his eyes. Hell, I'm a rebel.

When he opened his eyes again, his chin had sunk down onto his chest and his throat was dry again. His mouth tasted like something had died in there.

Must have dozed off, his mind slowly concluded before he raised his head and caught sight of something that couldn't be there.

Or maybe I'm still asleep.

He blinked and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it before he looked up again. But it was still there. A dark silhouette right across the room by the window. He blinked once more, and recognized the outline of someone standing there, a black figure looking out and down onto the street, her back turned on him.

He shook his head but she wouldn't go away. Instead he saw her turning her head slightly, hinting a glance over her shoulder before looking back out again.

"So, what have you been celebrating?" her voice reached him.

He swallowed, suddenly wide awake. His reactivity severely slowed down, but definitely awake.

He tried to sit up, and glanced towards the hallway and the door behind him.

"How –" he started but even in his drunk condition realized the ridiculousness of his question. Picking a lock was probably to her what was lacing their shoes to other people.

He ran a hand over his face. Why had he been drinking? He couldn't quite recall the reason. Oh, right. The book.

"The book," he mumbled. "Finished all my chapters and handed them in like a good boy."

"Congratulations."

He frowned. The usual sarcasm in her voice but it was somewhat extenuated.

"What…are you doing here?" he asked, and watched her shoulders slightly rise when she seemed to take a deep breath. But there was no verbal reaction.

He swallowed again, trying to get the awkward taste out of his mouth, but it didn't help. Water. He needed water.

He remembered the glass lying next to him and picked it up, and he was about to rise from the couch when her voice stopped him.

"You were right about why I joined CTU."

He hesitated, and when she continued to speak just leaned back and listened. Listened while she talked about her work for the NSC, for Division, CTU, and then from some point on for someone else, no regrets in her voice, no self-pity, no pleas for sympathy. Just the same calm intonation while she kept talking, more than he'd ever heard her say at any occasion.

It was getting light outside by the time she was finished.

¤¤¤

She heard him moving. He hadn't interrupted her once, and a part of her had wondered if he had fallen asleep. Hoped he had fallen asleep, but that would have made this whole pathetic ostentation pretty useless at the same time. And well aware that she needed him to be awake she had cast a reassuring look at his reflection in the window every now and then to make sure he was still with her.

Now she was finished and heard him moving, getting up from the couch and walking over to the kitchen, where the faucet was being turned on a second later, water ran but was being turned off again just a moment later. She turned her head an idea, listening to another set of footsteps, and then recognized the unmistakable sound of a bottle being opened and its liquid content being poured into a glass. She glanced over her shoulder.

He didn't bother to set the bottle down, just lifted his glass and emptied it in one big gulp, then refilled it while turning around.

"You want some?"

She looked him up and down.

"I think you had enough for both of us."

He smiled. "Enough?" And poured the alcohol down his throat, getting a third refill as soon as he was done. "I'm not so sure about that."

She frowned and took a closer look at him.

His eyes, face, hair, clothes – it was obvious he had been drinking from a mile's distance. He looked tired and worn down and his whole appearance left no doubt that it wasn't just the lack of sleep that was pressing on his shoulders. He seemed burdened. As if listening had been harder on him than telling had been on her.

She let her eyes travel back to the window, looking down on the slowly awaking street. Serves him right. She tried to find some comfort or satisfaction in the thought. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. He had started all this. He had forced her to look back instead of ahead, and now she suddenly felt like she couldn't do what had never been a problem before: leave it all behind and move on. Because of him she had to deal with it now, and ironically enough he was also the only person she could turn to for that. They were both part of the other one's problem but at the same time the only place left to go to, the only place left to look for a cure. Or at least for something they could use to go on.

She glanced at her wristwatch. She had gotten everything there was to get here. It was time to go.

She turned around, just when he finally let go of the bottle, placing it on the counter behind him together with the glass and steadying himself there for a moment. Then he came slowly walking towards her.

"I don't want to talk about it," she clarified before he could say anything. "I didn't come here to debate, I didn't come for counseling."

"I know," he stated calmly, still reducing the distance between them. "You came here because you needed to get it off your chest. Wash it off, flush it out - I get that."

She frowned.

"Good."

"You think it helped?" he continued.

She gave him a condescending look, avoiding to answer. Did it help? She could only hope it would.

He slowed down a little, and then stopped about three feet away from her, his glassy eyes resting on hers, looking at her with a surprising intensity. And she knew she should go. Before he could twist her mind again, because what else could he be up to. It was what he always did.

But a part of her hesitated. He's much too drunk. And although her body was tensing, although she felt uncomfortable she couldn't take her eyes off of him, couldn't stop trying to figure out what was going on in his head. What did he want now?

"So you got what you needed," he said, still staring into her eyes, speaking slower though as the alcohol seemed to reach his brain and do its job.

Yes. I guess I did, she thought, and he nodded slowly.

"How about me getting what I need?" he asked, still that expression in his eyes and on his face that she couldn't interpret, and she became alarmingly aware of the window and the wall behind her. Not that she would allow herself to go that far, but she couldn't even take a step back if she wanted to.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin up, maintaining the self-assure, superior look on her face.

"And what do you –"

The rest of the question died in her throat when he suddenly raised his hand, slowly bringing it up to her face, his fingertips lightly touching the skin on her temple. And it took all her strength not to withdraw, not to shove his hand away or move.

"The same as you," he whispered, his fingers moving down her cheek. "Maybe that's the saddest thing - but I think I'm just drunk enough not to worry about it."

She opened her mouth, but didn't find any words to say. Had he lost his mind? Now she wanted to push him away but couldn't. Maybe she was losing it too. Or maybe she hadn't been touched for too long, touched as who she really was.

His hand finding its way into her hair he leaned a little closer, and she could smell the alcohol, could feel his breath on her skin while their eyes were still locked.

"Let me help you. Let me help me," he mumbled, his voice reflecting the amount of alcohol in his blood. "Just…don't think. Just don't."

Definitely drunk, she thought and wanted to protest, knowing it was a bad idea. Nothing good could come out of this. But his hand traveled further, his fingers reaching the sensitive skin at the back of her head, and when his grip tightened to pull her towards him - it felt too good to seriously resist. Maybe this was a bad idea but what harm could it do. It could hardly be more awkward than last time, and given his present condition he would pass out sooner or later and she could leave without further talking, without risking… Whatever, she thought and gave in, letting him pull her closer. She could deal with the consequences later.