Too Late…?
Chapter 2
As Lindsay turned to rejoin the team on the roof, Jo walked purposefully down the stairs of the relatively quiet Precinct, through the maze of rearranged desks in the squad room and finally out the front doors. The smile that had remained plastered on her face for Lindsay's benefit, and the team's before that, faded quickly from her lips as soon as she walked outside into the darkness of the night. The clean up crew was still sweeping up trash and broken glass, stacking up barriers, gathering discarded poster board. But the crowds and the media had all dispersed, making the scene strangely reminiscent of the aftermath of a carnival or fun fair.
Jo hesitated a moment. Now that she was finally outside, alone, she realized she was uncertain exactly what she'd intended to do once she left the others. Her car was back at the Lab but she had no desire to return to pick it up. She wasn't in any particular hurry to get home. Ellie wasn't really waiting for her, but was away at a soccer tournament all weekend. Jo had blatantly lied to her colleagues tonight. To her friends. Feeling unable to remain another minute at the celebration, knowing she needed to get away before the tight control she was keeping on her emotions began to waver. So she set off in a random direction, intent on distancing herself as far as possible from the Lab, the Precinct, and the memories of the shooting.
Yet despite her efforts to move towards something more pleasant, her brain plagued her with images of the incident. As she turned the corner she shook her head purposefully, trying to will away her mind's defiant insistence at replaying each and every moment leading up to her finger clenching on that trigger.
She stopped suddenly and raked her hands down her face. Not caring if her eye make-up smeared. Dammit. This was not like her. To be plagued with such self doubt. She'd been under intense pressure before. She'd shot, even killed people in the past. The most recent incident, not so long ago. Why was this so different? A moment's reflection and she knew what was lacking this time around. She needed someone to talk to. To hear her out. To just listen while she verbally sorted through the conflicting thoughts, feelings, emotions that were each seeking recognition in her head. She wasn't normally the sort to bottle things up inside her. But lately, she realized, she'd been doing that more and more often. And it was beginning to take its toll. She began to walk again, hoping it would release some of the nervous energy she felt was beginning to accumulate inside her.
Lindsay had tried to get her to talk; Jo had politely deflected her attempts. She'd feared Lindsay would be compelled to talk too much, rather than just listen. To provide too much advice. Something she felt she needed only the bare minimum of right now. She just wanted a sympathetic ear. Someone to listen. She knew Sid would have heard her out. Would have listened patiently, offering only the most sage advice when it was clearly warranted. But she hadn't wanted to impose her problems on him. Not tonight. He'd looked so exhausted sitting next to her this evening.
Had she still been at the Lab, had Mac still been at the Lab, she'd likely have sought him out… Or perhaps not. As he entered her thoughts again tonight, her brow creased, yet again. A year ago, she most certainly would have gone to him. First thing. Now, she couldn't be so certain. Their relationship had changed. Ever since she'd expressed concern, or more aptly confronted him, about his health so many months ago, they had been interacting…differently, to say the least. And despite his rather tardy apology, and her overly casual acceptance of it, their relationship had never really gone back to where it had been before.
No. Truth be told - things had been…tense between them for quite some time now. An unspoken tension, unlikely even noticed by anyone else. It was evident more in what didn't pass between them, rather than what did. There was no animosity. No distrust. No malice. More like an aloof disregard of the other as anything more than a simple co-worker. And although she was certain he was just as aware of it as she was, she wasn't convinced that it disturbed him as much as it did her. Deep down inside, where it was beginning to eat away at her. And neither had made any move to remedy the situation.
She toyed with the idea of calling him. Of taking that first step. Right now. Nothing was stopping her. She stopped again on the next corner. Pulled out her phone and opened up her contact list. Her finger hovering over his image. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she looked at the tiny photo of him in her list of contacts. He looked slightly annoyed. Which was exactly how he'd reacted when she'd asked him if she could snap a quick photo for her phone, and then gone and done so, without waiting for him to even answer. Her finger moved closer to the screen, then froze.
No. She wouldn't call him now. Part of her wondered if it wasn't too late to even breach the subject of their rapport. It had been months. And anyway, her motivation at the moment was self serving. Not borne of any great desire to remedy their personal relations this moment, but rather borne of her own, personal desire for a friendly ear. She wanted, no…needed…someone to talk to right now. And, in the end, he'd had quite a day of his own. A day to forget. To erase from one's memory. Just as she had. The last thing he likely needed was her dumping her sudden crisis of conscience in his lap, when they were barely even friends any more. She shoved her phone back into her pocket and stood a moment, staring at the street in front of her, but not really seeing it.
A moment later, a cab pulled up down the block, letting someone out. Without even registering her actions she hurried towards it and got in. She suddenly had no desire to remain on the street, in public. No, she wanted nothing more than to be alone, in her apartment, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine. Or perhaps tonight, something stronger. The sudden, intense desire to be closed off from the world around her became all-consuming and she urged the taxi driver to please hurry. She could feel her ragged emotions rustling around inside her head. Becoming more and more restless the longer they were kept locked away inside. They needed an outlet. And if she didn't find them one shortly, she feared they would become such a force that they would finally break free of the barricade she'd been erecting around them all evening. And she was slightly frightened of exactly what that would bring. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, trained on the window of the cab and the passing New York City streets, just to provide some sort of distraction. Just for a little longer.
Within ten minutes she was on the doorstep to her building, punching in the entry code, passing over the threshold, striding across the tiled lobby floor. Out of habit she headed towards the back alcove, her keys in hand, searching for the tiniest one on the ring. Finally locating it, grasping it between her fingers, she reached her hand out slowly, inserting it in the small lock and turning it until she heard the click. That echoed quite loudly and unexpectedly in the small, empty niche off the lobby. She froze.
Her mind took her back to that alley. She could see in her mind's eye Keith frantically trying to open the mailbox in the dark alleyway, rummaging around inside. Then. Crack. The shot. From her gun. A split second later, the loud thwack, the sound of the bullet penetrating his body. Another shot. Another thwack. And this time, the thud of his body hitting the ground.
What started as a low rustle in her ear quickly turned into a raging howl, as if a tornado had taken root in her inner ear drum and was fighting to break through the confines of her skull. Her vision blurred a moment, her stomach clenched and a churning wave of vertigo washed over her. A great cloud of blackness began to invade her mind and she gasped uncontrollably. She recognized the signs; she was about to faint.
As a reflex, her face dipped down, trying to counter the loss of blood to her head. Her free hand immediately shot out, seeking to steady herself against the bank of mailboxes. Her other hand, still gripping the mailbox key, seemed disconnected from her brain. Sluggish fingers attempted to release their grip on the tiny mail key with the same speed that her reflexes had kicked in with her other hand, but they weren't quick enough. She wrenched the keyring as her hand jerked lethargically away, causing the tiny key to detach from the ring. Her grip finally released on the key ring as well, and the ring and the tiny key each dropped towards the floor. Jo, her head still thrust downwards in an attempt to keep from fainting, followed their trajectory with squinting eyes.
In her mind, the trajectory of the key and ring mimicked the trajectory of the bullets she'd shot. And her eyes watched, mesmerized, as they fell/shot from her fingers in seemingly slow motion, finally coming to rest with a sickening thwack in Keith Lewis' shoulder. His chest. Wait. No. As they came to land with a…a tinny reverberation? On the tiled floor. Of the mailroom. In her building. She took a sudden, deep, ragged breath and her head rose up a notch.
She eyed the door of the mailbox through glazed eyes. It was slightly ajar, a result of her jerking her key from the lock a moment ago. She began breathing harder as a shaky hand reached out to pull it open completely. Nothing. It was empty. But there'd been a gun. There had to have been a gun. She shook her head. No, not here. This was her mailbox. There was no gun here. She closed her eyes, her head leaning forwards, resting for just a moment against the cool metal bank of mailboxes. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to steady it. To slow it. A minute later, she sighed long and hard. Her breath almost back to normal. The black fog, threatening to engulf her conscious mind earlier, finally receding, gradually allowing reality to filter back in.
She shuddered slightly as she removed her hand from the wall and gently pushed her mailbox closed. She bent down carefully to pick up the fallen key and ring, rising slowly and jamming them into her coat pocket before turning around to walk hesitantly towards the elevator.
After pressing the button, she kept her outstretched hand just barely touching the metal panel. It's cool solidity somehow comforting as she waited for the elevator to come. Hoping that none of the other tenants in her building, particularly those few she actually knew, would happen to be in the elevator once it arrived. The bell dinged, she moved back slightly, bracing herself for a dreaded confrontation. The doors opened. Nobody. She let out the breath she'd been holding and entered quickly, pressing the button for her floor and leaning heavily against the elevator wall.
A minute later, she exited onto her floor, opened her front door and hurriedly ensconced herself inside the empty apartment. She dropped her bag onto the rug, shrugged off her coat and tossed it over the back of a nearby chair. She stood still a moment, surveying her apartment, trying to decide what to do next. She knew she should just go directly to bed. But she also knew she wouldn't be able to sleep.
After flipping on a small lamp, she headed over to the small side table where a few bottles of liquor sat next to a rarely used wine decanter and set of fancy cocktail glasses. The glassware, a wedding present. She had no idea why she'd even ended up keeping it. She should have given it to Russ when they divorced, but somehow it had gotten lost in the chaos of that period in her life and she'd ended up with it herself. And here it sat. Rarely used. More of a decoration than anything. She fingered the bottles, one by one. Most of them holiday gifts from her time at the Bureau. From co-workers. From her secretary. It only struck her now how odd such offerings had been; she rarely drank anything but beer or wine.
Finally clasping her fingers around the neck of the nearly full bottle of scotch, she snatched it up and began to open it. Her other hand grabbed a glass and she slowly poured herself a healthy shot. Or perhaps it counted as two. She wasn't certain. She debated trekking to the kitchen to retrieve an ice cube but decided that was too much work. She'd do without, even though she normally took it on the rocks. On those rare occasions she partook at all.
She moved slowly over to the couch, bottle in one hand, glass in the other, the odor of the liquor already permeating her nostrils, making her grimace slightly. As she found a comfortable position she wondered idly again if she shouldn't just call Mac. It suddenly dawned on her she'd never even informed him of the shooting. She'd returned to the Lab following the incident. To complete her own report. To complete her IAB interview. But he'd been at the Precinct all day and by the time she ended up there, he'd already left. She assumed he knew, even if he hadn't been back to read her report. Someone, probably Don, certainly would have informed him of Keith Lewis' death. And her responsibility for it. But she should have made more of an effort to seek him out. To let him know first hand. It certainly gave her an excuse to call now. To talk. Hell, not just an excuse. But an actual, valid reason. She frowned. Glanced at her watch. But not now. Another time. It was too late now. But, oddly, it didn't seem it would be too late tomorrow. Or even Monday. She'd just put it off 'til then.
She sighed, and took a long drink of the whiskey. Let it trail slowly down her throat. Felt the numbing burn as it went down. She wished it would numb more than just her throat.
She lay her head back, resting it heavily on the couch cushion. She closed her eyes. And a moment later, she finally relaxed and let the tears begin to flow.
-/-/-/-/-
Halfway across town Mac pulled away slowly from Christine. From her lips, her embrace, the familiar, clean scent of her skin. He smiled at her and ran his fingers through a strand of her blond hair, brushing it back from her face so he could better see her expression. She returned his smile with a small smirk and nodded up towards the door.
"Now, what do you say to that glass of wine and a fire?" Her voice was soft, with just a hint of playfulness.
He chuckled. "I think I'm ready now."
He reached down to pick up her sack of groceries, nestling them in the crook of one arm, and offering his other to her. She took it and they walked hand in hand up the stairway. As they paused in front of the door, Christine's hand released his to search for her keys in her purse. He watched, amused, as she rummaged around in a seemingly futile attempt to locate them in the small bag. She finally pulled out the keyring, holding it up as if it were a prize. Which made him notice her smooth, unadorned hands. Which made him realize how beautiful, and striking, a single diamond ring would look on them. Which, oddly enough, made him think of their dissimilarity with Jo's hands, which were always clad with multiple pieces of jewelry.
Jo. He started suddenly and look down at his watch. It was half past 10 p.m. He'd forgotten to call Jo. To check in about the shooting. He hadn't seen any of the reports, as he hadn't returned to the Lab. But Lindsay had informed him of the shooting while at the Precinct, and IAB had contacted him following the interview, to inform him that she'd been cleared. Yet he hadn't spoken to Jo herself. He was rather surprised she hadn't contacted him. He pulled his phone out partially from his pocket, trying to hide it from Christine's view as she fumbled with the key, trying to insert it into the lock. He turned on the screen. No missed calls. He sighed inwardly. He knew he should call. In fact, truth be told, she'd been in the back of his mind now for quite some time. Ever since he'd snapped at her for getting too close for his comfort to his aphasia. Quite honestly, she probably deserved more than a call. But he hadn't quite figured out how to go about taking that step. So he simply hadn't.
He heard Christine laugh next to him and he turned his attention back to her.
"Oh heavens. I'm so nervous, my hands are shaking. I can't even open the door."
Mac smiled and gently took the keys from her hand, shifting forwards to open the door. His mind trailed back to Jo for just a moment longer. Thinking that, if not for her and that damned social networking page she and Lindsay had set up for him, he wouldn't be standing here, right now, on the brink of an entirely new phase of his life. Yet he'd never thought to thank her. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. He had a lot of things he probably needed to talk to her about. That she deserved to have him talk to her about. And quite honestly, her role in his reconnecting with Christine was probably the least of them. But he definitely owed her a call. Or rather a conversation. In person.
His attention trailed back over to Christine, smiling up at him as he held open the door for her to pass through. But certainly not now, he thought. Another time. It had already been months. Another day or two to sit down with her? It wouldn't be too late...
A/N: Thanks to all who are reading.