Originally I was going to post this in Moments of Their Lives, but then it ended up much longer than i initially planned, and it felt more appropriate to share it as a separate story.
Warning: This is a bit of a downer.
Everyone tells Amy there was nothing she could do, but they're wrong. They weren't there. They didn't know anything. Nothing at all. And she swears, the next time someone tells her not to blame herself, she's breaking their nose.
Who is she kidding. She's not strong enough. She'll just break her hand.
Besides, they won't take her seriously. She's just Amy. She's not a detective. She's not a patrol cop. She's not even a desk sergeant. She's just the data analyst. No one would ever be scared of her, because she's not intimidating enough.
So she just takes it. She puts on a mask at work. She pretends she's not as messed up as she is. And maybe she's not fooling anyone, because she's not a good enough actress, but no one calls her on it. They let her keep going as she is, and she pretends she doesn't see the worry in their eyes when they look at her. She tells them she's fine, she's fine, everything's fine.
And so what if she goes home every night and drinks until she can't see straight, let alone make it to her bed? So what if she sleeps wherever she happens to fall? So what if she shows up to work hungover? It's not like she's going into the field like that. No one ever sends her into the field unless she's absolutely needed, because she doesn't have enough training.
And the drinking helps her sleep. It doesn't help her forget, she doubts anything would. And she's not sure if she wants to forget. But she knows that once she hits a certain point, she just passes out. She doesn't dream of Ken, or that night, or of falling.
When she gets home that night, the door has barely closed behind her before she's reaching for the bottle of scotch she started last night. All day the memories and the glances have haunted her. Everywhere she looked in the precinct held some sort of reminder because the precinct isn't big enough and she can't get far enough away.
So she doesn't bother with a glass and simply takes a swig straight from the bottle. It burns going down. She takes another gulp, desperate to let go. It occurs to her that this isn't healthy, and maybe she should tell someone. But she just doesn't care enough.
She nearly drops the bottle when someone pounds on her door, the sharp, angry sound bringing her right back to that night as the door slammed open and hit the wall behind it. She's halfway to her feet, heart in her throat, when the person outside yells.
"Amy! Let me in!"
It's Kai. She should have known he'd show up eventually. She shouldn't be surprised. He pounds on the door again.
"I meant it, Amy!" he continues to yell. "I know you're in there, your car is parked out front. If you don't open this door, I'll call Mal and Natara to kick it in!"
She scoffs. She knows they wouldn't do it. They're concerned, yes, but they're adults and they're busy and they're not going to kick her door in unless they think she's dead or in danger of dying. Which she's not.
Still, she finds she's not confident enough to call his bluff. She knows he'll call them, and then she'll have to deal with the fallout in the morning with a bigger audience. But if she answers the door now, maybe Kai can be convinced to keep this between them.
She opens the door right as Kai has his hand raised to knock again. He doesn't stop himself in time and narrowly misses punching her in the face, and she fixes him with what she hopes is a cold scowl.
"What, Kai?" she snaps at him. He frowns back at her, taking in her disheveled appearance and the half-empty bottle of scotch that's still clenched in her hand.
"Don't you 'what' me," he says. "You know why I'm here." He steps through the door and makes a grab for the bottle. She's surprised she's quick enough to yank it out of his reach.
"I don't need your pity," she says, turning her back on him. She marches back to her living room and collapses heavily on the couch. Kai follows her. She glares at him again, looking him straight in the eye as she raises the bottle to her lips again.
"Stop it," he says. He's across the room in a second, and this time he manages to swipe the bottle out of her hands. She makes a pitiful attempt to stop him but her head has already started to buzz a bit, so she gives up halfway through and settles for trying to make him burst into flame with her mind.
"Stop what?" she asks, unsuccessfully feigning ignorance.
"You know what," Kai snaps, jabbing a finger at her. "I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore. You know, he wouldn't want you to bla-"
"Don't," she says coldly, and her expression makes him take half a step back. "Don't you dare finish that sentence." Kai looks uncertain for a moment, then his expression hardens.
"Why not?" he shoots back. "You're not the boss of me. Ken wouldn't want you to blame yourself."
"Stop it," she warns, but he's not listening to her anymore.
"You can't keep doing this," he says, indicating the bottle of scotch he took from her. "You're going to hurt yourself. Or worse, you're going to get someone else hurt."
"Who cares?" she snarls, lurching to her feet. "Who cares if I get hurt?"
"I care!"
"Well you shouldn't!" she screams at him. Tears start to trickle down her cheeks. "I would deserve it. If I had just been fast enough, or smart enough, or strong enough, then Ken- he would-"
She breaks off as sobs wrack her body. She sinks to her knees onto her carpet and hugs her arms around her middle, trying to hold herself together. Distantly she hears Kai set the bottle of scotch on her counter, and then he kneels down in front of her.
"It's my fault he's dead," she chokes out. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Kai shake his head.
"That's not true," he says as he reaches out and takes her hands.
"It is," she blubbers through her tears. "It is. It's true." He shakes his head again.
"Enough, Amy," Kai says, giving her hands a firm squeeze. "That's enough."