Bulletproof Weeks
He's waiting for her when she arrives in her office. Waiting in and of itself was uncharacteristic, but he wasn't about to go about showing up at her place and pissing her off more than she already was. Well, more than he assumed. He'd have been pissed to hell if someone shot anyone he was sleeping with. Well, anyone but him.
She looks tired and it kills him. Despite the crisp suit and perfect makeup, her hair is limp and in a loose ponytail. Her shoulders are slumped and the watch is loose on her wrist. She's in flats - which is a telling sign of her fatigue - but he wonders if it has more to do with that which she refuses to tell him than her spending days and nights worrying about her boy toy. Er. Lover.
In the time he spends watching her, he sees the stiffness in her body, the careful way she balances herself as she walks by pressing her fingertips to the top of her desk as she walks around the corner of it. Her weight is back against the desk even as she tilts her hip against it, crosses her arms, and stares at him.
The instinctive question he now knows will get him nowhere. If he asks if she wants to talk, she'll shut him down. If he asks if she's okay, the answer will be to roll her eyes and point him to his own desk. If he asks about this case she's tagging and dodging, the case that got the Toy shot, she'll remind him that there are things he needs to know and things he doesn't.
When did this happen, he wonders, while she stares at him. When did it come to this, that he can't even ask her a question. Once, she was the one he talked to. About everything. Well, almost everything. He didn't tell her about Shannon and Kelly because he wanted to start over. He didn't want her feeling sorry for him. Now they can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. He wants to blame her walking away in Paris, but there had been a window right before she shut him down. What the hell happened? Now, he wants to help, but she needs to want him to.
So he waits for her to make her move. He's only a knight on this chessboard. She's still the queen.
She looks tired and it kills him. Despite the crisp suit and perfect makeup, her hair is limp and in a loose ponytail. Her shoulders are slumped and the watch is loose on her wrist. She's in flats - which is a telling sign of her fatigue - but he wonders if it has more to do with that which she refuses to tell him than her spending days and nights worrying about her boy toy. Er. Lover.
In the time he spends watching her, he sees the stiffness in her body, the careful way she balances herself as she walks by pressing her fingertips to the top of her desk as she walks around the corner of it. Her weight is back against the desk even as she tilts her hip against it, crosses her arms, and stares at him.
The instinctive question he now knows will get him nowhere. If he asks if she wants to talk, she'll shut him down. If he asks if she's okay, the answer will be to roll her eyes and point him to his own desk. If he asks about this case she's tagging and dodging, the case that got the Toy shot, she'll remind him that there are things he needs to know and things he doesn't.
When did this happen, he wonders, while she stares at him. When did it come to this, that he can't even ask her a question. Once, she was the one he talked to. About everything. Well, almost everything. He didn't tell her about Shannon and Kelly because he wanted to start over. He didn't want her feeling sorry for him. Now they can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. He wants to blame her walking away in Paris, but there had been a window right before she shut him down. What the hell happened? Now, he wants to help, but she needs to want him to.
So he waits for her to make her move. He's only a knight on this chessboard. She's still the queen.