Author's Note:
Hey! I'm a new writer, and this is my first fanfiction. It dives deeper into Dex's state of mind the night she meets Grey. I hope you enjoy it.
I love Stumptown (both the show and the comic books) and I can't wait for season 2
"So what happened on Saturday, the night of the 12th?"
Dex leans over her knees and stares down at her clasped hands. Through the pieces of hair covering her face, she can see the woman across from her sitting on the couch.
Black flats. Crossed legs. Magenta dress. Wedding ring. The notebook lays open on her lap, pen aimed and ready.
"Miss Parios?"
"Dex." It's a reflex. "Call me Dex."
The woman corrects herself and repeats the question. Maybe she asks a new one. By now, Dex can't hear anything she's saying.
Sweat beads around her hairline and between her shoulder blades. She likes it better on the other side, asking the questions.
The office is cramped. A humidifier lies on the ground in the corner of the room. It's not only turned off, but unplugged. The result is a dry heat, the likes of which sends blood pumping through her chest.
"Are you okay?" The question grabs her attention.
"I'm fine."
Out of her peripheral vision Dex sees the clock on the side table tick. With the sweat, adrenaline, and quiet, all that is missing is sand flying into her eyes and crunching beneath her feet and she'd be back in Afghanistan.
Fifty minutes they said. Fifty minutes and she'll be finished.
Now it is time to sit and wait. She's familiar with the game. There is no way to keep an empty mind, but she doesn't want to think about what comes next.
Praying she has enough cash for another bus ticket so she can head home to a kitchen with empty cupboards, a hungry Ansel, and a pile of unpaid bills is what she has to look forward to. That, and the overwhelming urge to drown her feelings in whatever alcohol she can get her hands on before they take root. It's times like these when she wonders what's worse. Waiting in suspended silence, or stumbling through life with the volume turned down.
"Your leg is shaking," the woman says.
"What?" Dex's gaze shifts. Sure enough, her knee is bouncing quickly, twitching as it moves.
"Face it Dex. No one is fine after five tours."
Her leg stops moving and she lifts her head, eyeing the therapist with caution.
"How do you…"
"I do my research. And if I'm not mistaken, almost two weeks ago you assaulted a customer at Hillside Pub. They could have arrested you, but instead they sent you to me."
"And gave me a fine after firing me." Dex scoffs. The therapist smirks.
Three and a half weeks. Three and a half weeks is the longest she's been employed since coming home. Her disability checks have been hard to keep useful when the craps table keeps calling her name. Hillside's manager, Danny, got her a night shift cleaning countertops and bathrooms for minimum wage.
Keeping her nose down and doing the work proved to be too difficult far too soon when the pub cleared out earlier than usual on the Saturday night in question. The busted air-conditioning combined with a rare sunny day made the heat almost unbearable.
The bartender took a smoke break and Danny was in his office trusting her to fix the broken air conditioning. With no warning it was too empty, too confusing, too quiet...
She didn't hear him come in. Crouched over the disconnected thermostat, screwdriver in hand, nothing else existed. She heard the thunk of his backpack. The angry call for some service is what got her full attention. She whipped around and fell right into routine. The old adage "look before you leap" is something Dex has never been good at.
A thump in her heart started it. The anxiety of looking at her hands and seeing the man's blood on her knuckles ended it. The police were called, Danny spoke with them, and somehow a deal was cut. Lose the job, pay the fine, go to a court mandated therapy session, and nobody goes to jail.
Three and a half weeks. That's the best she's been able to do. And she's been home for six years.
"Do you have anyone in your life, anyone you can talk to? Stuffing this down can only hurt you, and now it's hurting others." The concern in the therapist's voice sounds real, but the line, rehearsed.
"I, um… I take care of my brother." She shrugs. It's not as hard to talk about as she thought. It's about the only damn thing she's good at.
"That's admirable, but who's going to take care of you? When you're shutting down, who's going to be there for you?"
Dex leans over again, eyes on her hands, hair falling back around her face. Fifty minutes they said. The wait is almost over.
The woman yammers on about the VA, post traumatic stress, and the importance of talking about it all, nothing she hasn't heard before and can't tune out. During the last ten minutes of the session, the dreaded quiet returns.
When it's time to go, the woman hands her a business card, tells her to check it out and to try and find some help. She crumples it up and tosses it in a garbage can on her way out of the courthouse.
What now? She can't go home. Not yet. Maybe to a bar? Even though Danny's okay with her, she's still banned from Hillside. Better grab some beer from the gas station.
It happens quickly, the robbery. She springs into action when needed, which is nothing but autopilot. The storeowner is thankful, but she's numb to the kindness. It's isn't until he crashes into her and the glass breaks that she makes her way back to her body and registers the night air.
He seems cool. He offers to buy her a replacement beer. Ansel's with a friend of a friend who owes her a favor. One phone call later, and it is booze, sex, and time to forget.
Little does she know that years from now she will sit across from the same man and call him her best friend. She doesn't know that for the rest of her life, when she recalls the sound of the beer bottle breaking, all she will be able to think is,
Finally, some noise.