Disclaimer: I don't own the situations or characters portrayed herein. I'm just playing with them for a while.
A Matter of Choice Part 2
She was upset, more upset than he had ever seen her before. Not even when she had been drugged by Mrs. Welch had he seen her this agitated. Simply put, Francine was a basket case.
His back still hurt from the shot that Brody had fired at him, but at least he had been able to wear a bulletproof vest. Poor Francine had not had the same luxury to protect her heart, and she was hurting.
"Look, I really need to talk, okay?" she said, more ordering than asking, and he followed her wordlessly out the door.
He wondered, as they meandered around the various monuments of Washington, when he had become the listening ear, the voice of reassurance, the shoulder to cry on. It was unexpected, certainly, but it felt good for Francine to trust him with her fears and uncertainties and self doubt. She had, after all, been one of his best friends for eight years.
She poured out her heart, not bothering to hide the bitterness, disappointment, and crippling self-doubt that was plaguing her. He listened, trying to see things the way Amanda's kind eyes would see them, trying to channel the same patience and encouragement she always showed him.
At last, when Francine had said all she had to say, he spoke. He kept his voice carefully free from anger or reproach — an easy thing to do, when she was so angry and reproachful with herself.
"Hey," he said, waiting until she turned to him, his hands on her forearm and her back to comfort her. She allowed the touch, which was disconcerting. She rarely showed affection in physical ways. Her hug when he had been injected with PD-2 had been one of a kind. For her to accept this comforting touch showed just how confused and upset she really was.
"You and I have known each other for a very long time, haven't we?" he asked her, for once not feeling out of his depth with all this emotional stuff.
She nodded, smiling a little.
He shook her arm a little, like Amanda did sometimes with the boys, and went on. "I just want you to know, whatever happens... I'll be here for you."
She squeezed his hand gratefully. "Thanks," she said. "That means a lot, really."
When had he gotten actually good at communicating in emotional situations? It was new, and different, but strangely satisfying.
He was back at Amanda's house, tired to the bone. He had stopped by in between Jonathan Stone's debriefing sessions, trying to steal a few precious minutes with his wife before he had to go back to the agency.
The relief he felt at Brody being put back in federal prison had nearly suffocated him. He had gone weak, after the release of the heavy weight of stress and tension he had placed on himself for the last three weeks. He felt like he could sleep for weeks, now.
But he had to go back to the agency first, before he could have those weeks of sleep, so he made himself a pot of coffee and quaffed it all while she washed dishes and he finally told her about the case.
"Well, Dunleavy's research is safe, and Brody is where he should be. In federal prison."
He drank more coffee.
"And you're back here where you should be, with me," she said, satisfaction evident in her voice even as she kept drying dishes.
"You bet," he answered, drinking more coffee.
"If you drink that coffee, you're not gonna be able to sleep tonight."
He would have loved nothing more than to follow her upstairs, fall into bed with her, and wake up in a couple days.
"Yeah, well. If I don't drink it, I'm not gonna be able to stay awake."
She was practically pouting.
"Well, you don't need to stay awake; you need to get some sleep — about thirty-six hours' worth."
He could sure use it. He rubbed his eyes, yawning.
"As soon as I wrap up Jonathan's debriefing, I'll sack out," he promised her. "And leave a wake-up call for Tuesday."
He felt the sharpness of her gaze on his face as she asked, "You don't think Jonathan's such a bad guy anymore, do you?"
It didn't matter if he did or not. He had promised Francine that no matter what happened, he would be there for her. And part of that was showing confidence in Jonathan Stone, regardless of his own feelings on the subject.
"No. He just made the mistake of trusting the wrong person. He was only trying to help Francine."
He didn't quite believe it, but he could hope. If the agency's most profligate playboy could grow up to be a faithful husband, maybe Francine's flighty ex-fiancé could turn out well, too.
"Well..." she said, almost as if she were reading his thoughts. "What do you think's gonna happen with Jonathan and Francine?"
"We'll know in about two weeks," he answered. "They're taking off on vacation together tomorrow."
And if they survived that, they could probably survive most things. Francine was incredibly high-maintenance on vacation, and Jonathan was a pushover.
She sounded delighted for her prickly friend. "Really? Gosh, I hope that works out."
"Yeah," he agreed. "Well, you know what they say: Everything comes out in the wash."
He almost choked on his coffee when she spoke, in a singsong voice that would have sent him running for the hills if he wasn't so bone-tired.
"Oooh, speaking of the wash. Something of yours came out in ours."
He groaned. "Oh, no, not another sock." He joined her at the laundry basket, as if by getting closer he could get it over with sooner.
"Nope. Not a sock," she said, pulling out one of his blue boxer shorts with a flourish.
Oh, Dotty was going to kill him.
"I'd recognize them anywhere," she said dryly, her eyes crinkling up at his discomfort.
It certainly didn't look innocent, even though it really was. When had he even had a chance to leave boxers behind? He had changed his clothes over here precisely once.
He sighed, accepting his fate.
"Who found it?" he asked, tentatively. "Your mother?"
She shook her head.
"I'm cleared for laundry now," she said, grinning up at him. "You're lucky, mister."
