A/N: I know, a huge delay in getting this up...I'm sorry! This chapter took a lot of work, even though it is short, because we're really switching gears here, taking a look at things through Flack's perspective. The song is Keith Urban's 'Tonight I Wanna Cry'. Enjoy!
Don Flack sighed as he shut the front door behind him and stepped into the dark, lonely apartment, shivering slightly as he flicked on the heater and tossed his coat onto a chair. As he had for weeks now, he left the lights out – there was no one there for him to see and no one to see him, so the effort just didn't seem worth it.
Moving into the kitchen and pulling open the refrigerator door, he reached for a beer but paused as his gaze fell on a forgotten bottle of wine near the back of the shelf. He smiled as he pulled it out and ran his fingers over the label, remembering the day she'd bought it for him after they had wrapped up the case of a murdered vintner. He'd taken every opportunity to make fun of the cheesy labels, saying that no real man would ever keep a bottle like that in his home. So naturally, Stella had just had to buy him an entire case of the stuff. And, of course, because it had been a gift from her, he'd just had to keep it.
Alone in this house again tonight
I got the TV on, the sound turned down and a bottle of wine
Settling into a spot on his couch, he popped the cork on the bottle and clicked on the evening news, muting the volume so that the images flickered silently into the room. Taking a sip of his wine, he glanced up to see a reporter standing in front of a beachfront home, yellow crime scene tape in the background as the camera panned to capture a coroner's assistant escorting the body to a van.
Flack sighed as he allowed his mind to wander just a bit, wondering if she was inside that house, working that crime scene. It was obviously high-profile if it was on the news – as the head of the crime lab, she worked all the high-profile cases, if only to ensure that the investigation looked good for the media. He wouldn't have been surprised to hear that she was inside that house.
There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me
The way that it was and could have been surrounds me
I'll never get over you walkin' away
Flack didn't need to turn his head to see the photograph that hung on his wall, but he found himself gazing at it anyway. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, something that had sent shockwaves through his body in a way he hadn't ever felt before that moment, and had only once felt since then. They were both laughing at something, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. It was such an intimate moment, he was amazed that it had managed to come through so well on film. It had always made Jess uncomfortable to have it there – despite his protestations that he and Stella had never been anything more than very good friends, she still seemed threatened by his relationship with her.
It didn't really surprise Don that his relationship with Jess hadn't lasted much past Stella's departure. Sure, they'd had fun together, and in a way, she had made him happy. There was just something about her, though, that he couldn't move past, and it had taken Stella's removal from New York for him to realize exactly what it was – Jess wasn't Stella. It struck him as bitterly ironic that it had taken her leaving for him to see exactly what they could have had…exactly what they would have had, if only he hadn't been so damn blind.
I've never been the kind to ever let my feelings show
And I thought that bein' strong meant never losin' your self-control
Don was certain he knew at least part of the problem – his father had raised him to keep his true feelings to himself. On the few occasions that he had let someone in, life had taught him that keeping your heart to yourself was the only way to keep it from being hurt. He needed to be in control at all times – certainly, he was known for his fiery Irish temper, but when it came to the feelings that really mattered, those he kept closed up inside of him. Maybe if he'd been just a little freer with them, let himself let go just long enough to tell her how he really felt, she wouldn't be gone.
But I'm just drunk enough to let go of my pain
To hell with my pride, let it fall like rain
From my eyes, tonight I wanna cry
He wondered what he'd say if he could see her at that moment. Even with half the bottle of wine flowing through him, would he really have the courage to take that risk? He'd been too proud in the past, too unwilling to risk her rejection. Now he wiped a stray tear from his cheek as he contemplated the life he was left with, the regret hanging heavily in his heart as he could do no more than wonder about what could have been.
Would it help if I turned a sad song on?
"All By Myself" would sure hit me hard now that you're gone
Or maybe unfold some old yellow lost love letters
It's gonna hurt bad before it gets better
But I'll never get over you by hidin' this way
He couldn't exactly call them love letters; Don knew that. Still, they'd been exchanging letters since shortly after she moved. He supposed it was easier that way – voices revealed far too much, even on a long distance phone call. Neither of them brought up what had happened between them the night he'd gone to see her, her last night in New York, but if he read her letters closely enough, he swore he could hear the pain in her words. He kept each one in a box, neatly tucked away where only he could find them.
She'd written to tell him she was sorry he'd broken up with Jess. He couldn't help the stabbing pain in his chest when she'd instructed him not to dwell on it for too long, not let it get him down. If only she knew – if only he could tell her – that it wasn't his ex-girlfriend that had him down. If only he could find the words to make Stella see that it was her…that it had always been her. It wasn't the memories of the nights he'd spent with Jess that kept him on this couch, holed up in his darkened apartment night after night. It was the single memory of the night he'd spent with her; one night that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get over.
'Cause I've never been the kind to ever let my feelings show
And I thought that bein' strong meant never losin' your self-control
He knew he'd screwed it up. All she'd needed was to hear him say those three little words. Three words, and he could have kept her with him in New York. Three words and she wouldn't be three thousand miles away from him. All he had to do that night was tell her it meant something; tell her it hadn't been a mistake; tell her that she was the one he pictured when he thought of his future. But no, he'd been too stubborn, too confused, too…too something, to let her know. And now, well, now it was too late. She was in Los Angeles, starting over without him. And he was still in New York, alone with his pain, unsure he was ever going to truly get over her.
But I'm just drunk enough to let go of my pain
To hell with my pride, let it fall like rain
From my eyes, tonight I wanna cry