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Part 11: Roots in the deep.
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It was the year 2010; and it was a steady rhythm. It was the seamless flow of water, solid and infinite.
It was a year he found generally balanced; tranquil and mostly a world of motionless contentment. It was a ceaseless little river of content streams, water particles dancing in among each other, assured in their existence – infinite in its continuing flow – tranquil in its nature.
It was a time where he languored in his existence; it afforded him no apparent troubles or aches but for the occasional little rippling in the otherwise calm waters.
It was a funny little thing but major crimes seemed to collide with fid an impossible number of times; in the beginning it had been an invasion, forceful in magnitude, almost devious in repercussions. Sharon swept into their world with a nonchalance that came across as arrogance to everyone – most had no idea how to comprehend her façade so it was easier to chalk it all down to coldness and indifference; aloofness was a well suited coat to wear and one he knew she languored in. It was one that forced people to underestimate her.
As much as everyone had their own little tendencies, she had her own as well. Funny, even if he noticed the more vibrant glint behind her eyes and even if he knew she had a role to play, it aggravated him. It was bound to; she stepped across people's toes in a way that not even the chief would have managed; with a natural flair. She was as unwavering in her disposition as the Chief; a solid force to come up against.
Naturally he took to eye rolling and grumbling; it was two counterforces he could rely on; that and narrowed eyes and hard looks would convey a thousand little things; his aggressive disposition had always fit well against her.
In the beginning he had clenched his jaw, joined the banter about grumbling about the 'wicked witch' – all with good intentions. In the beginning it had been precarious, not unlike the collision of two different storms – hot, cold – it was bothersome either way.
Funny, because no one suspected the two of them were more friendly than they let on – they never caught onto the disparaged glint Sharon would sent him or the little lingering glance they would share – no one figured that hard words and raised voices had become natural to their work personas; it afforded no bigger troubles than what they had already faced. Sometimes he compared their combative natures to a little dance; dark creatures were always a bit devious in that aspect, circling each other.
Foremost, the profound basis for still being able to linger in their little secret relationship was the fact that Sharon clashed with the Chief; a fact he found entertaining. It was almost with a bit of relief that he could stand back; he did not have to bring a full force of defense himself. No, he could merely watch and once every now and then give a little grunt of disagreement or an eye roll. It became more entertaining to watch the two women struggle. It was a relief to let someone else try to fence with Sharon, and watch them struggle as much as he would have struggled. He could watch on the sidelines, share a joke or two with the boys – and later on he could share a laugh with Sharon – or a good back massage all in regards to what mood she seemed to inhabit when he confronted her.
It became a spectator's sport, in that way that he could lean back and observe; he had never taken the opportunity to watch her from afar before – it bore a little twinge of something bittersweet. It afforded him a little window into a different portion of her – a part of her he had tried to comprehend for a long time but it was as fleeting as water between your hands – it only ever left a wet impression behind. Apparently she instilled curiosity in him, even after all these years.
Why, he could even yell at her – voice raw and forceful, he could roll his eyes and grumble about her when she invaded their squadroom; she did not mind. If anything she seemed to bask in it when he resorted to annoyance. She always wore a little smirk at the corners of her lips, in her high heels and well-tailored suits or dresses; she was mostly amused by their antics – he could tell even if she chose to appear nonchalant, even if she appeared disparaged.
She smirked and he sneered; it was their little shared ritual. Predators acknowledging each other, acknowledging the fact that they were both capable of the same degree of deviousness, only different in their mode of attack, different in their approach to obstacles.
He learned little tidbits about her from watching; a fact that surprised him – it had not occurred to him that there was features of her he could learn from distancing himself; it was like taking a step away and watching her roam around. It was as intense an insight as if he had been in the collision himself; intense in the way that he wanted to push the Chief aside and do the argument himself; why he knew exactly which buttons to push and exactly what to say to annoy her even further; something the Chief lacked.
It evolved; it was bound to. Even Sharon could not remain an antagonist for long, even if she tried hard – she had that tendency to slip under skin and linger, eventually everyone became familiar with her disposition and her presence and she did not evoke the same resentment as in the start. She could still grate everyone's nerves raw – but it had become an accepted fact – she was the wicked witch after all.
She became that little dangerous thing on the periphery – not a complete outsider. A mysterious presence; the boys wondered about her – he felt an inner need to talk about her, but it would be too much of a surprise so he kept his mouth shut. He did not invite the others into the little details about her; they had no need to know that she had worked in narcotics, no need to know about her marital status; and most certainly no need to know he ended up naked and entangled with her everytime fid and major crimes ended up colliding.
Provenza seemed to have enough stories to share around, grumbling about what she had done to him and his old partner. Sanchez had heard a thing or two by the water cooler – really it was more entertaining to listen to their stories; laugh about the inconsistencies and try not to correct them.
Rumor was a strange thing; Sharon had apparently collected her own little nest of it – filled with tidbits of truth but a majority of far-fetched stories prevailed. It was strange listening to others talk about her and yet he was used to it; she had been in I.A for far too long now. If no one had screwed up recently the talk always riveted to I.A – and she was a prominent figure, so naturally the talk turned to her. She had a natural proclivity for arousing interest in people.
Sometimes though it was on the tip of his tongue; the urge to somehow just let a little story out – to share something about her. But the feeling was always overridden by the more vivid, tense emotion of wanting her entirely to himself; it came down to the fact that he had no desire to share her with anyone. Everything he had learned about her, everything he knew; it was hard-won – he was not about to merely let something slip to others because of a passing fancy.
That and there was something alluring about having a relationship in the dark; secrets were powerful in that context and even more when you lived in one. It was not a conscious effort to hide; they merely slithered around on the periphery, both of them, joined in a little shared laugh about the obliviousness of everyone else.
Intimacy was a frail being; even if they had cultured it, even if it had become too familiar to be broken – it was still engrained in him to tread carefully when it came to her. Secrecy secured them a certain degree of protection. That and they could hardly start kissing in the middle of work; foregoing telling others about their shared bond was as easy as letting your body flow with the current in a stream; needless and pointless to fight against nature.
It reminded him what you could do with perceptions; how others could be led to believe what they wanted, how you could direct everyone around you till they perceived you the way you wanted. Sharon did not mind the gossip and the ridicule; she did not mind the many nicknames – when it came to business everyone knew she meant trouble. Everyone knew they were knee-deep in shit when her voice turned up a volume; everyone knew they were about to be thrown to the wolves when her voice turned low.
It became a little habitual greeting and acknowledgment between them; antagonism and smug superiority were really only foreplay. Whether it was feigned or whether it was real and powerful, it always ended up being some kind of foreplay.
It was the essence of familiarity, he decided. He slid into in his relationship with Sharon; it seemed to exude the same little essence of seamlessness. He felt himself lingering. Surprisingly he felt her lingering as well – felt her seeking him out. There was a tint of fluency to their connection that had not been there in the beginning, a little flavor of something having sunk roots deep into the ground and was now content in this existence. Intertwining roots, he imagined, deep into dank, dark soil – too deep to uproot, deep enough to allow a certain degree of freedom – comfortable in the way that your childhood house seems to be a favorite fairytale when you pass it by.
Presently however, he was half-sitting in his bed with a sullen grimace – a headache behind his eyes, his arm in a sling and the general overall experience of feeling bruised and battered tormenting him. He was too old to be fighting it out street-like; too old to get punched and knifed. Too old to be losing that much blood – he felt horrible. Tired, nauseous and of course angry – why, how else was he supposed to feel when not only had he been attacked but likewise overthrown by Sharon in full fid-mode; a different assault, in his own squadroom, waving around his jacket like it was everyone's business.
He knew his jacket was too dense – she knew it; no reason to flaunt it for everyone to see. No reason to attack him again and put his conduct into questioning. The Chief had been there; otherwise he was not sure what he would have done – possibly he would have tackled her into a wall and demanded she shut up, his lips a perfect tool to accomplish just that. He had seriously considered just kissing her anyway; she would have been catapulted into anger if he had, she would have lost her calmness. Yet, he had settled for a derisive glare, trying to convey she was not his favorite person at that moment; she had merely glared back, that indifferent attitude to anger that was her specialty. It had only incensed him further; but he had relented and gone.
It needled him, even now at home and having time to contemplate. She was bound to investigate him like everyone else – he was still adamant she could have been a bit more cordial about it. Everything annoyed him though; maybe she was just a collateral and ended up being another reason for his simmering anger. Truth be told he was angrier with the situation, with himself – with the fact that he had been too close to lying next to his car in a pool of blood. Anger made sure, however, that he did not linger too much on this fact. If he started contemplating his own mortality it would only deteriorate, he would end up a despondent bawling idiot.
It forced to admit the truth; he was maybe in a slight brooding mood.
When he heard his front door opening, heard the clicking of familiar heels coming into his hallway, he did not feel up for a visit. Especially when he knew with a frightening certainty that she was bound to open her mouth and talk, she was bound to either rip wounds apart again or – even worse – she would be achingly sweet. If she was mute and merely snuggled into his side, comforting him without any words or looks; he would not have minded so much. That, however, was impossible. She was rarely silent; and even when she did not expel words, her eyes was expressive.
She tip toed into his bedroom – when she saw him half reclining on his bed, pillow behind him, open eyes – she came further in; the same outfit as the one she had worn when he last saw her. It was still immaculate – nothing wrinkled about her look, not even a little desperate shine of having worked nonstop for too many hours. He only knew she was tired by the little tell of her hair; slightly ruffled, as if she had been running a hand through it a number of times.
He felt almost bad; she had no outlet for letting her emotions show – she could not touch him in front of the Chief and Provenza when he had been in the hospital bed – she could not soothe him and herself with touch. Deep down he knew it was the reason she had been, albeit a bit strange to the others, cordial but professional in her conduct; both at the hospital and later on. Her hair would look flawless to outsiders, why it fell softly along her cheeks, down her neck – tumbled around in a slight curl at the end; but what looked constructed to others looked out of order to him.
She arched an eyebrow, "No need to look so glum – I come in peace"
He continued to glare at her; the same barely restrained angry look he had given her throughout this whole ordeal. It was a wonder she had yet to snap at him; a wonder she had not yelled at him yet. If the roles had been reversed he would have resorted to an angry outpour of loud words; he would have shown emotion in the only possible outlet he could, the foundation he always fell back on. If the roles had been reversed – now that would have given him pause. It was something he did not want to linger on; he was certain it would have been a disaster – he was not accustomed to the same composure as her. He would have alternated between deep panic and manic anger.
"God, I'm famished," she ignored him – coming close and depositing a little chaste kiss on his brow; the one that was not cracked and glued together by butterfly band aids. Her hand stroked along his neck, soft and soothing; not that he would admit it or let his frown disappear.
It was one of those times where he wanted to nestle into an embrace but felt equally compelled to not be near her; a contradictive feeling. As much as he wanted her touch he likewise felt repelled; it was a strange notion – it was a strange emotion. However much he did not feel up for her visiting he knew without a doubt he would have been livid had she not shown up. Once he got past the matter of pride and hurt, the matter of anger and feeling battered; he would seek her presence with an ache – with a potent embrace.
She shed her coat – laying it haphazardly across the back of a chair, eyeing him with a look that told him she was in an obliging mood – otherwise she would not tolerate his petulance. The little upturn to her lips was warm and comforting; assuring and he knew, eventually, she would end up next to him, in his bed – whispering words of comfort and lulling him to sleep. He hoped so; his body was aching and he desperately wanted to be able to sleep.
Insomnia plagued him more than he would care to admit; he tried to alleviate it with exhaustion – being a workaholic helped most of the times. Tonight, however, there was nothing to settle his mind on that would not lead to anxiety and second-thoughts; she would calm him down in that aspect and lull him to sleep with a skill she seemed to inherently inhabit in regards to him.
Her soft touch left him and he watched her disappear; going into his kitchen he assumed. A bit of time passed and then he heard the small sound of his microwave oven. He grumbled to himself, and then suddenly aware of what was in his fridge he grimaced.
"Please tell me you're not eating my risotto," he raised his voice so it carried into his kitchen, kept it in an irritated tone.
He heard her answering laugh; he sighed.
When she came in with a bowl of steaming risotto, a spoon in her mouth it only managed to put a more pronounced pout in his face. First accusing him of being a brute – and now she was pilfering his food. She tilted her head as she regarded him, and then proceeded to put another spoonful of risotto into her mouth. He decided to ignore her; kept silent and ended up staring at a spot somewhere beyond her shoulder.
She put the bowl next to his bed, on his nightstand; next to a glass of water he had put there himself along with a little bottle of painkillers.
He was offered another smile before she started rummaging around his drawers – within a small moment she found a faded, large t-shirt. Consequently it was the one she somehow always ended up parading around in when she visited; he had come to think of it as hers – it even smelled like her, however much he seemed to wash it. He did not mind.
"Eat," she ordered him, pointing at the bowl where there was still plenty of his risotto left.
Then she left again, a smile thrown over her shoulder before she went to his bathroom.
When he heard the sound of his shower being turned on, he sat up a bit straighter and reached out for the bowl with his good arm, balancing it on his lap. Reflecting, he looked around his bedroom not really focusing though.
Mostly he wanted to join her in the shower, slide his body into alignment with hers and be able to integrate his whole being into simply being naked with her. It would calm him down; he knew that. It would not be possible this time however, what with all the bandages and his aching skin and muscles – sore joints and bruises. Additionally it was an almost certainty that she would kick him out and tell him to go lie down. He was still angry at her as well; so he opted for grumpiness – opted for eating his risotto with vehemence.
Shoving the spicy, creamy rice into his mouth and barely chewing before he swallowed. Still, he was not too angry to not leave a bit behind for her. He knew she was starving when it was the first thing she did; going straight for his fridge was one of those little things she did when she visited and she was on the point of fainting. There was plenty in the bowl; he was sure she had already consumed half his orange juice; the carton would be half empty when he looked tomorrow. He did not really mind.
She came into his bedroom again, this time only in his too baggy t-shirt, fresh wet hair and a little smile. She plopped down on his bed, next to him, curling around his side – not close enough to touch but close enough to elicit a presence of warmth.
He looked sideways; she was studying him, head in hand, leaning on her elbow.
She smiled wider when his eyes caught hers.
He took another spoonful of risotto, deliberately enjoying it with a low growl.
She rolled her eyes, turned on her back and pushed a couple of pillows behind her head.
"You're cleared, you know that, right?"
He huffed.
"Pouting does not become you"
He felt almost inclined to retort back that bitchiness did not become her but he held his tongue. It was another certainty; he would not win any fight between them now, not in this state – it would be pointless to start one. She would tear him down in a second.
"I would give you a blowjob"
He turned his head sideways, forgetting to glare – he felt rather thrown off course by her comment – even more thrown off by the mischief in her eyes, the sweet way she bit into her lower lip, expectant – waiting for him to gather that she was trying to cheer him up – that she was resorting to teasing because she knew it was an endearingly little rare thing he liked about her.
She smiled sweetly, then "But I'm not sure you have enough blood left in your body to get it up"
"You're awful," he told her, but could not keep his lips from curling into a smile.
She smiled wider and he caught his own mouth returning the tender acknowledgement.
"Raincheck then?"
"Sure, honey," she laughed.
His anger was not really with her, a fact she always seemed to know before he acknowledged it himself. Sometimes she knew him too well; it was an annoying reality – but mostly, in hindsight, it was a glorious thing. Few people knew him that well; few had a front row seat to all the little facets of him – whether it be the good or the bad, the deplorable or the well-intentioned.
She scooted back and sat up next to him – stole the bowl from his lap and took a spoonful. He, on the other hand, sank further down, careful of not jostling the arm that was in a sling too much. Being able to lie down, it was wonderful – even in the light of his body protesting. But it protested at everything; it was in agony over even breathing.
Fingers strode through his hair, tender and gentle in their caress; her touch instilled a calmness in him – a serenity he would otherwise not have been able to garner by himself.
He listened to her eat, the sounds miniscule while her fingers continued to soften through his hair, every now and then trailing along his temple – warm against his skin. He could feel another shift in the mattress, felt her lean into him as she put the bowl back on the nightstand. Rearranging, he scooted into her side, leaning his good side against her body, keeping his injured arm free. The stitching in his abdomen stretched and stung at the motion but quickly subsided, a dull pain that would be a constant little thing for a while he knew.
A dull ache that would be in his body for weeks, at the least. He was after all too familiar with knife wounds, too familiar with a bruised and battered body and how long that persistent dull ache would accompany him. Sharp, jabbing pain that turned into something else, not less in its impact even if it became less noticeable upon movement.
Her fingers dug more firmly into his hair, at the back of his nape – palms flat against his skull, keeping him close.
"Next time, will you try not to scare me half to death," her voice was low – still soft, the little tone of slight distress was noticeable however.
"You could have fooled me," he mumbled into her chest, a little lie. Even if he had been on the brink of fainting – he had fainted, he amended – he had still been able to detect the worry in her eyes as she had come around the ambulance doors, her hand hard against his shoulder as she kept him from falling flat on his face. She had been professional – she needed to oversee the crime scene – and even if her composure had been marble he had still been able to acknowledge the look in her eyes – wary worry, with just a slight panic buried very deep. He was only able to see it though since he knew what to look for. Others would find her uncompromising as steel, hard-edged and unapproachable – they would find her exuding the same emotion that she always was surrounded in. He was privileged in being able to read her.
She gave a little sigh; it flittered into his skin at his temple – her mouth close, "Are you going to be passive-aggressive nonstop now?"
He nodded but foregone answering; maybe the close call with death had been a bit more profound than he gave it credit for; it was easy to bury it as long as they had worked on finding out who had attacked him and who had orchestrated it. Now, however, there was only the stillness of the night and the quietude of being alone. It was overwhelming then.
He nestled closer to her, his side protesting.
"Okay," she whispered and it was more her tone and the motion of her touch that was comforting; soft and understanding.
Later; it was only when he woke up that he realized he had been able to fall asleep. Wounds aching woke him up; he had a vague notion that he had not slept as long as he wished but far longer than was usual for him. His head throbbed and normally he would have dulled it with painkillers but the sensation of being in a warm, hot embrace – the drowsiness of coming out of sleep was too enticing to let go.
If he jostled around his head would hurt even more and the rest of his body would soon then follow with vibrations of their own pain to accompany; his arm felt numb for the moment – thankfully. It was a too comforting position, nestled into her body and being able to detect the little beating of her heart, faint and with long pauses; she was deep into the realm of sleep still. The rise and fall of her chest was like a little reminder; soft like her heartbeat and with just long enough pauses to make him hold his own breath to fall into her rhythm.
When he found himself waking before her, when he caught himself watching her sleep, he was overcome by a peculiar, estranged little thought. It did not bring him peace to watch; not in the way it usually did to watch someone sound asleep, no worries to detect on their face. No, it was bittersweet. It was always a little moment that propelled him into a whirlpool of dangerous thoughts – watching her sleep and he inevitably found himself thinking about watching her sleep, every day – all year; till they grew old – well older.
It was a ridiculous notion, a little daydream; one that he derisively snorted at but when he got trapped in the moment with her, it felt nothing short of poignant.
He had to remind himself to merely watch her, stop with imagery of wishes; merely be content in the moment.
It was not a dilemma or even a problem; it was a rare thing to be propelled into such thoughts. It was something that only really happened when something stirred the calm waters. Reflecting about his own mortality – having been too close to that rim where there was no going back – it was naturally a trigger, initiating a thought process he otherwise steered clear off.
She inhaled; a slow process that he only felt, ear close to her chest.
He liked to think that sometime, somehow they would sink even deeper roots. For the moment he was content with the way they were.
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