"I haven't slept since Father's day." He says while absentmindedly drawing his fingers through his hair.
"You haven't slept at all in four days?" The man in the chair opposite of him leans forward; closing the notebook in his lap.
"No." He throws his head back on the couch, letting out an exasperated sigh. "I can't do this anymore. I can't hold my daughter because I'm terrified I'll drop her from exhaustion. I can't carry on a normal conversation with the kids, let alone with Liv. I can't take it anymore. What this is doing to us, to her. She hasn't slept properly in days either. She's trying to cover all the basis, to be everywhere, to make this OK and of course she can't. She can't give up and it's eating her alive. My wife is losing it before my eyes and I'm too tired to do anything about it. So, I just, I need something. Either pills, or more intense therapy, to be committed – something. This, this isn't working. Not for me, and certainly not for my family." He slowly lifts his head up and is met by a pair of piercing dark-brown eyes.
"What happened on Father's Day?"
"What do you mean?" He knows exactly what he means, but he doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to go there, to re-live; no he'd rather shut it off - take meds, pills, anything over re-living it.
"I mean, why do you think you haven't been able to sleep."
"If I knew that I wouldn't be here."
"But you are." The man says with a coy smile. "You do know, you know why you can't sleep. And you say you're sick of this but you won't let me help you, you won't let me make it better. You know exactly what triggered it and you're keeping it from me. You think pills will help? They won't. They'll let you sleep, but they won't ease anything; they won't make whatever's eating at you go away, they won't make you forget. And frying off portions of your brain – you really think that's what your family needs, on top of everything. And getting you committed – you think doing that to Liv is-"
"Don't you dare drag Liv into this. I am doing everything to protect her form this."
"You're not and you know it." The man stares at the him, his eyes challenging him, daring him. "What happened on Father's day?"
"I saw my former editor, Cyrus Beene on the street." That's a lovely way to sugar-coat it, underplay it, he thinks to himself.
"His husband was in Syria, wasn't he?"
Fitz nods his head, yes; shocked that the man knows.
"He died, didn't he?"
His eyes widen, he can't pretend; can't hide the shock on his face. "How do you know?"
"Well the bombing was a big deal. Two Americans killed, three injured – it was covered in the news. And, well, I did my research. Before I took on your case. I like to inform myself about my patients."
He doesn't know what to say, so he just stares ahead – his eyes darting between the ticking clock on the opposite wall and the window – avoiding the man's eyes at all times.
"Was he a friend?"
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to talk about James. About whether they were friends. He wants to leave, to walk away, but he can't. This, this is the only way he gets better; this is the only way for him to heal – because even his kids, Liv – none of them can do this for him. She can do anything, she can do everything; but not this.
"I don't know."
"You don't know if you were friends?" The man asks in a condescending voice – it's a challenge.
"No, I don't." And he finally looks at him; he's finally done avoiding. "I don't know. Because friends are people you meet for coffee breaks, guys you get beer with; talk to occasionally. Friends help you when you're moving houses, or when you're buying a car; they let you bitch about your wife. You can tell them secrets; you tell them your fuck-ups; friends give you advice. But what do you call someone who's saved your life?"
The man doesn't look surprised. No, there's nothing in his eyes – just focus and clarity; quiet understanding. "How did he save your life?"
"I was stuck in the fire. I couldn't get out. He came back for me." No details he gave to Liv, no emotion in the story. No, this isn't personal – this is clean.
"He came back for you?"
"Yes. He went back into a burning building to save me."
"Did he call your name?"
"What do you mean?" He's starting to get frustrated again.
"I mean did he call your name? Or did he just call out? What did he shout?"
He pauses for a moment. He replayed this scene a million times in his head; he's seen it in his dreams; yet somehow; this detail is elusive. It's out of reach. He closes his eyes. Fire. Fire and light. Smoke. The burning in his throat. And then, then he calls out – there's a response. He called out.
"He didn't come back for you." The answer is apparently evident from the mixed emotions on his face. "He was a doctor; he saved lives and that day, he was trying to save them as well. Not your life, a life."
It should make him feel better, it should. But he knows that this doesn't get him off the hook, not really. He may not have come back for him, but he's the reason he's dead; he's the one who let go of his hand. His jaw is clenching, his eyes are back on the floor – the man knows there's more; there has to be more.
"So how did he get you out?"
"I followed his voice and found the door and then I made my way out."
"And James, did he come out as well?"
Silence.
"Fitz, did James come out as well?"
"No. He got left behind. He died."
"He got left behind, or you left him behind?"
"I… I am the reason he died. He was behind. He was walking behind me, but the place, fire, everything was crumbling. The floor fell through and I tried to give him a hand. I tried to hold him. But it was too hot and there was too much smoke. I tried, but then I gave up. I let go and he fell. He literally fell into the flames." A tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn't notice it. No he can't feel it. He can't feel anything. Nothing but guilt.
"You couldn't have saved him."
He lets out a laugh, or is it a muffled cry? "I could have. I should have."
"You couldn't have saved him."
He looks up, frustrated. "You don't know that!"
"You couldn't have saved him." He keeps repeating it, in the same tone, same intonation, same facial expression. It's frustrating and exasperating and Fitz doesn't see any point in it. He wasn't there; he didn't know James and he certainly doesn't know him – so how can he know this.
"Stop saying that like it means something. I could have saved him, but I didn't. I am the reason-"
"You couldn't have saved him."
"STOP SAYING THAT!"
"Good you're angry! You're angry and you're fighting. Now think about this – was he fighting? Was he holding on?"
And that's the moment he realizes – he's not the reason James Novak died.
"He let go of my hand." It's quiet. A whisper of a broken man. A whisper of someone who can get his life back. "He wasn't holding on. He wasn't trying to get up. He was for a while. And then, then he just stopped. And I held on, but then I couldn't, not anymore. But when I gave up, he was already gone. He was gone."
"He didn't come back for you. He didn't die because of you. He died before you let go, probably from smoke inhalation. He saved a life and then he died. It's awful and cruel and it's life. But your life, you, are not the reason he died. You didn't get to live, because he died. It wasn't tipping the scales; it wasn't a galactic exchange; it was chance, it was an accident."
He doesn't say anything and the man doesn't push him. He lets him think. He lets him contemplate this new truth. He lets him contemplate his own mind's fallibility, his own mind's tricks, the way he dreamed up reality. They sit in silence, the man scribbling in his notebook as he takes time to process. This changes everything, yet it changes nothing. He didn't kill him, but he watched him die – the image forever etched in his mind. A body falling into the flames; the feeling of hands slipping; the smell of burning flesh. The guilt is leaving him, slowly dissipating, but everything else – it still haunts him; it will haunt him. Death like a noose around his neck, following him in life, following him every day.
"Time's up."
He gets up gathering his things and then he pauses. The man speaks, "Next week, same time?" He just nods his head with a faint smile.
"Thank you Dr. Wright." And with that he leaves the soft hues of the room and steps into a cloudy New York afternoon.
He's walking back a bouquet in hand – she's had her first full day at work, a first full day away from Nur; her mom watching the girls; and on top of that – this, this is a reason to celebrate. Soft rain starts, the kind that waters down the summer heat and then evaporates, back into the air; the kind that lasts only for a moment and then disappears without a trace, taking with it all hope of a cool night. It's the kind that slows everything down, just a little bit – it lets everything breathe. The kind that almost seems foggy, like a mist. But no, that's not it – it's not an illusion, not mist, it's really him. Stumbling. Again. Rambling.
"Cy!" He yells, before he can think better of it. He yells, before he can turn his back, before he can walk away.
The man turns around, his eyes looking for the voice, searching the street for a familiar face. It takes him a while – everything is moving, and so is everyone, and he, he just stands still, a moment of calm, a break from stumbling in the chaos. He finally locates the man; he stands out – he's the only one who looks as broken as he feels; he's the only one who seems as stuck.
He's sitting on the stool, his fingers tapping on the polished surface nervously; his eyes affixed, not blinking; his ears – listening. And there it is – the lock turning, and then the handle; the door opening. She steps in, exhausted. It's almost midnight, her first day overran – the day stretching long into the night. She's taken aback, she didn't expect him to wait; she hoped he might be asleep, or just in their bed, waiting. He walks over to her, a nervous smile on his face.
"I missed you today." He kisses her forehead and than makes his way down to her neck. She tries to kiss him back, but he steps away – he needs space, clarity, and she's intoxicating.
"I did something."
"Fitz?" She sounds worried. He grabs her hand and walks her over to the couch. She looks down and then turns around looking at him, confused. Before she can speak he drags her away into the bedroom, shutting the door. "What is Cyrus Beene doing on our couch?"
"I couldn't leave him."
"Leave him where?"
"He's been drinking. I saw him a couple of times."
"What? Why didn't you tell me?" She sounds hurt, offended.
"I saw him, but I didn't do anything about it. I saw him the other day, Sunday, and I, I just, that's why I couldn't sleep. And then today, today in therapy, I realized – Liv, I didn't kill James. Me letting go of his hand… He… I'm not the reason he's dead."
"I know." She looks at him teary-eyed; of course she knows, she's known for a while. "Fitz, he didn't hold on. If you'd just let go, he could have held on. But he didn't."
He's starting to get angry – how could she know this, know it and keep it from him; let him torture himself senseless? "How could you not tell me?"
"You felt so guilty. You were consumed by it. If I had told you, you wouldn't have believed me. You wouldn't have believed it. You needed time, time to figure it out."
She's right. He wouldn't have believed her. He wouldn't have believed it. But she let him torture himself over it. She let him go through hell. But then he realizes – she put herself through hell for him. She knew and yet she couldn't help him. She knew and she didn't try to fix him. She knew and she just let him, gave him time to heal. He didn't sleep, but neither did she; he had nightmares and she took care of him; he was falling apart and she held him up. She put herself though hell, because of him, for him. She loved him enough to give him time. She loved him enough to fight her instincts. She loved him enough to believe in him, even when he couldn't see it, even when he couldn't love her for it. Suddenly he feels guilty, for getting angry, for not realizing this sooner, for not protecting her; he feels guilty for failing her. But then, as instantly, the guilt is gone with a single touch, her palm against his cheek. The guilt is gone and all he can feel is love. The guilt is gone.
"I know it's crazy. OK. I know it's crazy. He's off the rails. And I mean completely. It took him a minute to get out my name. He lost his house-keys and he hadn't showered in days. Liv, he was a mess. And I, I just couldn't walk away. It's not guilt. It's not because I feel I owe him. But James, James saved my life, and he, he wouldn't want this – not for anyone, and especially not for the love of his life. I know it's crazy, but I couldn't just leave him. So I brought him here. And Diane helped me, we bathed him and changed him, and put him to sleep. He just, Liv, maybe we can help him, maybe we can fix this, maybe we can save him. And I know, OK, I know we have a newborn baby, and I know your work is crazy and I know we're just seeing the light here, for the first time in months; I get it, but I'm a stay-at-home dad anyway; and I can do it now, I'm better; I'll be OK. And I can take care of him, just a bit, just to show him someone still cares, that someone is still there. Maybe this time, maybe he'll hold onto my hand."
She just stares at him, blankly, as he keeps on talking, never inhaling. Then, silence. She's quiet. He nervously bites his bottom lip, getting ready for another pitch. "You done?" She finally asks with a smile, and he opens his mouth – he'll fight, he might be able to change her mind, to get her on his side. But she doesn't give him a chance, no her lips are crashing on his, her tongue storming in – it's not battling, they're dancing in sync. She finally breaks away and chuckles softly when she sees his shocked face.
"You, Fitzgerald Grant, are a good man. A great man."
He just looks at her, unsure of what to say – words just seem insufficient. Instead he pulls her into an embrace, whispering – "I love you", a thousand times over. Finally, he speaks up, "Let's go to sleep." She grins as they collapse on the soft sheets.
"We might have to move." Her head is on his chest, his hands drawing soft lines on her arm.
"But then we won't have the stars." He says struggling to keep his eyes open.
"We don't need them. The present is so much better than the past." He just nods slowly, already gone – his mind finally at peace, resting.
She fixed him; she knew when to let him be. She fixed him.
I was going to update this tomorrow, but then I literally couldn't stop writing, so I guess there's no time like present.
Finally, movement! I hope you liked that - and the way it turned out. It was a tough one to write, but the second half really made me smile.
Thank you so, so much for your reviews - I just love reading what you think and I love that you care about these characters!