Recovery on a Day of Rest
He sleeps in - his eyes don't open until eight AM and when he does wake, his body keeps him still. His legs still hurt and he's sure there's still gravel embedded in part of his calves and knees. There is light peeking around the edges of the designer blackout curtains and he can hear kids playing outside.
Groaning, he sits up and pushes the blankets aside. Glancing down he sees bruises and bandaids and a new sore that looks infected. Nothing some iodine and soap won't cure. Slow steps take him to the bathroom where he squints into the mirror, staring at the shiner on his face. He's had worse, but there's something about this that sits with him. Maybe Jen is right. Maybe the question he needs to be asking is why he keeps doing this.
But the answer to that question is downstairs. The answer to that question had been awake when he came through the door the other night. Heather had been tucked into the fluffy blanket he'd given her for Christmas, pretending to read some biography of some war hero, and when she'd seen his face she hadn't been able to keep the tears from her eyes. But for all the pain he'd caused her by being injured, she and James and Daniel and Jenny and even Charles were the reasons he did what he did. He had the chance to keep Abby and Tony and the little boys next door safe. So they could sleep without fear, he went across the border and tried to take down gun running terrorists who didn't care a wit about anything except money. It wasn't about religion or ideology. It was all about greed. Staring at himself in the mirror, he realized that there was a good chance greed was going to be the thing that took him from his family.
Splashing water on his face, he chuckles at himself. If there was one thing all cops had in common it was their superhero complexes. It didn't take a degree in psychology (or even two classes in it) to figure that out.
Morning needs taken care of he wanders down to the kitchen where he could smell coffee brewing and the remainders of what had to be bacon, eggs, and possibly pancakes. There are a few leftover dishes in the sink and Heather is tucked into her desk chair, the fuzzy blanket around her shoulders. She looks up as he comes down, blows him a kiss, and waves to the coffee pot before returning to what she was working on.
Yes, he thinks to himself as he pours a cup of coffee and snatches a piece of bacon off the warmer, this was why he did it and he'd be damned if anyone took it away from him.
Groaning, he sits up and pushes the blankets aside. Glancing down he sees bruises and bandaids and a new sore that looks infected. Nothing some iodine and soap won't cure. Slow steps take him to the bathroom where he squints into the mirror, staring at the shiner on his face. He's had worse, but there's something about this that sits with him. Maybe Jen is right. Maybe the question he needs to be asking is why he keeps doing this.
But the answer to that question is downstairs. The answer to that question had been awake when he came through the door the other night. Heather had been tucked into the fluffy blanket he'd given her for Christmas, pretending to read some biography of some war hero, and when she'd seen his face she hadn't been able to keep the tears from her eyes. But for all the pain he'd caused her by being injured, she and James and Daniel and Jenny and even Charles were the reasons he did what he did. He had the chance to keep Abby and Tony and the little boys next door safe. So they could sleep without fear, he went across the border and tried to take down gun running terrorists who didn't care a wit about anything except money. It wasn't about religion or ideology. It was all about greed. Staring at himself in the mirror, he realized that there was a good chance greed was going to be the thing that took him from his family.
Splashing water on his face, he chuckles at himself. If there was one thing all cops had in common it was their superhero complexes. It didn't take a degree in psychology (or even two classes in it) to figure that out.
Morning needs taken care of he wanders down to the kitchen where he could smell coffee brewing and the remainders of what had to be bacon, eggs, and possibly pancakes. There are a few leftover dishes in the sink and Heather is tucked into her desk chair, the fuzzy blanket around her shoulders. She looks up as he comes down, blows him a kiss, and waves to the coffee pot before returning to what she was working on.
Yes, he thinks to himself as he pours a cup of coffee and snatches a piece of bacon off the warmer, this was why he did it and he'd be damned if anyone took it away from him.