Angelina Acomb

When she heard Amazing Grace on the bagpipes, she felt herself collapse with sobs. Mark caught her, keeping her up on her feet as she buried her face into his shoulder and wailed underneath the roar of the hymn. She felt his arm press into her chest, protective of the folded triangle of the American flag that she loosely held, so she wouldn't drop it.

She could still hear the pops of their rifles from the Three-Volley Salute. She wasn't sure when the blasts would stop echoing. Besides Peter's tombstone, their parents' names gleamed in the sunlight on their markers to his left.

As Peter was lowered down into the ground, she wept harder. She wept for the loss of her husband, her parents, for everything.

Mark stayed by her side long after most of the other mourners left. Despite the clear skies that morning, it was still deep winter. "Angie, it's time," Mark gently pulled her from the rectangular pit.

She turned, seeing Will and Allison, both who approached to hug her.

"Let's get you out of the cold, hon," Allison comforted gently.

Angelina felt a wave of overwhelming emotion. But he's here. Out here, in the cold ground.

But she knew there was nothing she could do but be led to the car.

She let them take her home. All three hovered over her, trying to help.

But she didn't want their help.

All she wanted was to collapse on her bed and just sleep forever. She wanted to stop feeling. To stop breathing.

Long days had passed. She felt like a leaf blowing in the wind.

She somehow managed to get to work. Food was constantly sent back, customers complained, and her supporting staff stepped in.

"Don't worry, Chef," Charles, her sous chef, would pat her shoulder when she would burn whatever she had in the frying pan. "You're pushing yourself too hard. You should head home early."

"I'm fine," she would feel anger bubble up whenever she was told to leave. She couldn't go back home. She would rather be anywhere but there. "I - I'll clean this up and start over."

She took the still smoking pan to the scullery as the dishwashers quickly sprayed their high pressured hoses over the sinks full of greasy plates.

"Hanging in there, Chef?" Seth Baxter gave her a half curled grin before nodding towards his station. "Happens to me, too."

She stared, confused. "What?"

"Forget I had the stove running," Baxter pulled at his beanie, scratching his forehead. "You okay?"

She blinked and nodded. "I'm fine." She turned to where freshly cleaned pots were and took one, returned to the kitchen, filled it with water, and set it on the gas burner.

"Chef!" Her line cook, Jared, called out to her. "We're behind on orders!"

She blinked, recognizing the line of waitress notes suspended above the center station and walked to the farthest slip to the right. "Two spaghetti, one BLT, and a salmon," she called out.

"Yes, Chef."

"I need back up with the garnish," shouted Charles and she joined him chopping vegetables and lining plates with them.

She felt bursts of focus, when she forgot about her life, but then the pang of memory would paralyze her, in the middle of her work.

She tried to shove it down. To just move on. To get through it all without falling apart to tears.

She was going fast.

The pot. She forgot she had the pot boiling.

"Where's the pasta?" The shout made her jolt and lurch towards the pot. She was panicking. She grabbed the pot.

She slipped.

She felt her feet slide faster than she could stop them, her grip on the frothing pot still tight.

She felt the scalding heat on her hand and the sharp sting of the back of her head.

She was on the floor, her left arm burned from her hand to her forearm and her head pounding.

She heard her colleagues curse and shout in surprise. Charles' face swarmed her vision.

"Shit," she heard Seth's voice and she felt ice where her arm stung. She blinked through tears and sat up, groaning from the pain.

"Can you get up, Angelina?" Charles was pulling her, to get to her feet. "You're lucky you didn't burn your face. You need to get to the hospital."

She looked at her arm. It was bright red. Her skin felt violently itchy, as if a million ants were chewing at her flesh.

It hurt like hell.

She grimaced as the pain amplified, never plateauing.

"I - urgh," she fell back. She wasn't feeling sorry for herself anymore. All she could feel was her arm.

"Hang in there, Chef. I'll drive ya to the hospital." It was Seth. "Let's get you in the car. Can someone give me a hand?"

She felt a sharp coldness being pressed to her skin, the roughness of a towel-covered ice bag both solace and irritation.

Everyone was looking at her. Worried. Eyes were full of pity wherever she looked.

She hated it all.

She was careened, gingerly, into an old car that was full of trash and smelled of stale cigarettes. A Hawaiian bobblehead was fixed to the dashboard.

She leaned back in the passenger side and let out a groan, gripping her bundled arm.

"Want something for the pain?"

"Fuck," she grimaced. The burning sensation only got worse with each passing second. She felt as if she had rusty nails pressing deeper into the meat of her arm. "Sure."

"It's kind of heavy. Prescription grade."

She didn't fucking care. "Just - if it makes this stop. Yeah. Please." Her eyes were full of water as she looked at the dishwasher.

He had concern knitting his brow. He dug out of his pocket an orange cylinder of pills, uncapping and tapping out one before handing it to her. "Ain't got water, you're gonna have to swallow it dry."

She took the small white circle and popped it in her mouth, forcing herself to put it down after four gulps. She doubled over and curled into a ball. "I've never felt so much pain."

"Yeah, burns suck. Buckle up. I'll get you to the doc real quick."

He started the engine and tore out of his parking space, turning sharply onto the street.

Long minutes elapsed. They had been caught in traffic. All she could focus on for what felt like an eternity, was keeping herself still as every nerve in her skin seared white hot.

"Ten minutes," Seth murmured. "How you holdin' up?"

She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Surprisingly, not that bad. "I'm hanging on."

He nodded. "Medicine kicking in?"

Now that she thought about it, her arm was nowhere near as bad as it had been. "I think so." She felt the same heaviness she had been feeling since Peter died, but with a grogginess that made her want to lean back and fall asleep. "I feel… weird."

She heard him laugh. "Yeah? Figured you'd have shit tolerance. I remember that feeling. Man, I'm jealous."

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "You want second degree burns?"

"Psh, nah, Chef. Just saying oxy is sweeter when it's your first time.:

"Oxy?" She registered that he was talking about oxycodone. "Why do you have a prescription?"

He smirked. "Uh, for real?"

She blinked, slowly. She began to realize that maybe Seth Baxter was part of a world she was completely separate from. She could already tell Mark would have not approved of the guy. "You a bad boy?" I can't believe I just said that.

He chuckled, blue eyes distant. "Oh, the baddest. We're here. Let's get you to the doc. Who knows, maybe later I'll show you just how bad I can be."

Matt Gibson

He finally had them.

He gripped the formal suspension notice in his hand, marched to Grissom's office, and plopped the documents onto his supervisor's desk.

"These are for Eric Matthews and Roger McCallister."

Grissom was leaning back in his chair, sipping through a straw from a McDonald's cup as his Big Mac was half eaten on his desk. There was a long pause as the sound of turbulent air crackled with ice. The man sure likes draining every last drop.

Gibson knew this was a power move. Whoever spoke first, lost. He kept staring, knowing no matter what Grissom said or tried, it was undisputed.

Matthews, had royally fucked up so hard, it was already in the news.

Already, everyone who cared about their careers had distanced themselves from the hothead.

Eric Matthews, golden boy of the Metropolitan Police Department, and closest corrupt piece of shit to Mark Hoffman, was about to crash and burn.

That gun pointing stunt he pulled with the news reporter had been exactly what Gibson had prayed for. The bastard was finally going to be taken down a peg. Gibson almost enjoyed watching Matthews, on camera, point his weapon at the civilians, without a care in the world.

It was the perfect example of what was wrong with Homicide. It was a perfect example of what was wrong with the MPD. And finally, consequences would be dished out. The boy's club was getting knocked down a couple of levels.

Gibson believed it was a sign that the whole festering tower was tumbling down, after this. And it was about time. He was the first to break the silence, impatient. "Internal Affairs has concluded their investigation with Detective McCallister.

"As for Detective Eric Matthews, we recommend he be suspended without pay until the conclusion of the investigation of his alleged assault of a reporter and the supposed rumor that he pointed his weapon at two unarmed assailants. We will ensure we are thorough and focus on solid evidence before we make a conclusion on whether the case needs to be elevated." He said this, sarcastically. The video was all the proof they needed.

"You enjoying yourself, Gibson?" Grissom was in no mood to bond.

"Frankly, yes," Gibson nodded, stiffening his lip. "I meant it when I said I was going to clean up this crooked department."

"If you're here to preach, then get the fuck out of my office."

He felt himself smirk. "Fine. IA's going to be busy for the indefinite future. Just so you know." He turned and left the office, feeling buzzed. He walked down the narrow passageways, cutting through the detective rows of offices. Ahead of him, the man of the hour walked out of the room where 'Eric Matthews' and 'Mark Hoffman' were neatly labeled on the doorplate.

Mark Hoffman's stone face darkened at the sight of him. He closed the door behind him and stalked away. A loud yell through thin walls erupted. He heard the sound of shattered glass from the office Hoffman had just left.

Sounds like Matthews is redecorating.

Gibson opted to go for the more level headed of the pair. "Hoffman!" He called out, knowing it was risky to pick a fight with him. But he was riding high. He felt invincible at that moment. And everyone was watching all the detectives in Homicide like hawks.

"What do you want?" Hoffman kept his face smooth but he could see the resentment in his curled lip.

"Just to talk to you, about Matthews."

"Got nothing to say. I wasn't there."

"Yeah, but you're his partner." Gibson spat the words, finding his emotions had been boiling over. "And this is exactly what I mean about why you can't take the law in your hands and abuse it. Consider this a warning."

Hoffman looked around, cautious before turning to glare at Gibson. "You like to run your mouth, kid. But you're way in over your head. I told you to back the fuck off."

"And I told you," he looked up at the man, adrenaline rushing through his veins. "That I was going to clean up the corruption here. McCallister. Matthews. They're just the beginning. But you're my main prize."

Hoffman scoffed. And then he let out a low laugh.

"What's so funny?" Gibson wanted to hear it.

"You're so delusional. You think you're in the right, taking down my men. You're just taking down good cops that do what's needed to get done to get a conviction. You're just screwing the department and the city over that way. Get a clue, Gibson. Doing things by the book has never been how things operated. It's a pipe dream. If you need the job done right, you've got to get down from your pedestal. Criminals will always play dirty. It's all they know. And playing their game - it's the only way to put them in their place."

Gibson shook his head. "No. No, you just gave up before trying. Look at Will. She does things the right way. And Kerry."

"You don't know shit about Will. And that's cute. Damn, you are such a rookie." Hoffman leaned forward and whispered, "And just so you know, for fucking over my men, I'll make sure you get what's coming to you."

Gibson took a step back, furious. This son of a bitch just threatened him.

"Mark," the feminine voice made them stop and turn. It was Maddox, striding up to the two of them with an eyebrow raised. "Gibson. Care to share what you two are whispering about like a pair of schoolgirls?"

"Just complaining about the busted coffee pot in the break room," Hoffman lied so easily, Gibson pitied Maddox. He knew those two had been dating for at least a year now.

"Oh, I heard about that. Guess that means we need to do a coffee run. Come on, I'll let you drive." She turned and paused. "You coming, Gibson?"

"He was just heading back to work," Hoffman's voice didn't betray what Gibson knew: there was no way in hell Hoffman would be cool with Gibson tagging along as the third wheel. "The IA's neck deep in dealing with Matthews."

"I heard." Maddox shook her head, looking genuinely sad. "I can't believe it. Matthews? If I didn't see the video, I wouldn't have believed it."

Gibson stared, confused for a moment, until he realized that she likely had no clue what had been going on while she was working with the FBI for the past two years. It was the first time he had seen her in the office in months. And before she had left for Quantico, Matthews had still been relatively stable. He had been a practical boyscout, alongside Tapp and Sing.

"It's a shame," Maddox continued, "I know the divorce was rough on him. I didn't see it coming."

Of course you didn't. You weren't here. But everyone else? Oh, everyone else had seen and turned a blind eye when it had been barreling towards them like a runaway train.

"What's your latest case?" Hoffman touched Maddox's shoulder and gently steered her away from Gibson.

Their voices grew more distant as they walked away.

Gibson let out a small sigh. Poor Maddox. How could someone as sharp as her be so blind? He shook his head and went back to work.