yuletide fic: The Unloosen'd Ocean (Homicide; Russert/Howard)
Title: The Unloosen'd Ocean
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Megan doesn't cry when she gets the news.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fontana's and Levinson's and NBC's.
Notes: Thanks to luzdeestrellas and vaznetti for betaing. All remaining errors are mine. Written for erinpoetchica in the 2006 yuletide exchange. Set during the season five finale. Title from Walt Whitman.
Word count: 2,045
Date finished: December 12, 2006
Date posted: December 25, 2006
~*~
The Unloosen'd Ocean
Megan doesn't cry when she gets the news. She has a new husband, a new life here in Paris, and Baltimore--homicide, Beau--seems very far away.
She decides not to go to the funeral. This is her life now, and she doesn't need to deal with Beth, with Kay, with Gee or Munch. Doesn't need to think about another police who ate his gun, especially not one she knows the way she knows Beau. She's out of practice at the sudden shift from present to past tense, and doesn't want to relearn it. Doesn't need to see the closed casket and remember what his hands felt like on her body, his lips against hers, soft and wet and hot and secret.
She sits up late that night, alone, drinking glass after glass of Bordeaux, remembering how sweet Beau could be, how he could make her so angry one minute and make her want him so desperately the next. She tells herself there was nothing she could have done for him. She almost believes it.
There is a tightness in her chest and throat, and she thinks she should be crying; she waits for the tears to fall, but they don't.
When she books her flight, her voice is steady, professional, and her eyes are dry. She doesn't think about anything but getting back to Baltimore (homicide, home), and finding out what happened.
*
The first thing that hits her when she walks into the squadroom is the smell--stale coffee and too many bodies stewing in some combination of fear, anger, and despair. It's not a pleasant smell, and it makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle after so many months away--she's not sure she ever noticed it before.
Everything else is the same--Munch is cracking wise, Gee is barking orders, and Frank is a control freak. The only difference--and it's not a subtle one--is that she no longer belongs here. She's not sure she ever did, but she used to try so hard to make herself fit, make the job fit her. Still, she can't imagine being anywhere else right now, now that it's too late to do anything but make sure they put this murder down, write Beau's name in black on the Board.
Kay pulls her into a brief, stiff hug, and Megan closes her eyes, inhales the clean scent of Kay's hair, and wonders yet again how Beau was able to make them both love him so fiercely, and in such different ways.
She's glad he had that, at least, and sad that even Kay didn't keep up with him in the end. Maybe they all go out that way--alone, scared. Live by the gun, die by it, too.
*
They're all still reeling from the news that Beau was working for IID when Gee takes her and Kay off the case.
Kay begs and pleads, but Gee is implacable, immoveable. And Megan can't say he's wrong, necessarily. It's not that Frank is a better detective than Kay (even Frank might hesitate before saying that), so much as Frank is far less emotionally involved--Frank can look at Beau's name in red under his and see a fellow police in need of avenging, but he doesn't feel the sick twist of failure in his gut; he and Beau were coworkers, but never friends. Aside from Bayliss, Megan's not sure Frank has any friends, and the stroke hasn't changed that.
So, when Gee says, "I need you to make a funeral," she understands, at least on the intellectual level. It's important that it be done by people who loved him, who care. In her gut, though, it still feels like a dismissal, like disrespect, like he's sending the women away to weep while the men do the real work. She does what he asks, anyway, because Beau deserves to be remembered as a hero, a person, a man who was loved. She does it, because otherwise, she and Kay will be shut out altogether, and she doesn't think either of them could possibly bear that.
*
"You're a redhead now, huh," Kay says, after the silence in the car has become uncomfortable.
"Yes."
Kay glances over, then back at the street. "Looks good."
Megan smiles, genuinely pleased by the compliment. "Not like you, though. You have beautiful hair." Megan knows she's an attractive woman, and she's never been one for jealousy, but Kay's hair is like something out of a masterpiece by Titian, and Megan's always admired beautiful things where she finds them. She knows Kay and Beau never slept together, but she used to wonder if Beau imagined tangling his hands in it, how it would feel sweeping over his skin, tickling his thighs as Kay moved down his body.
She curls her hands into fists so she doesn't reach out now to feel it for herself, and wonders where that urge came from.
Kay shrugs. "Thanks," she says softly.
They talk about the case for a few minutes, but there's really nothing new to say, and she doesn't want to get Kay upset again, doesn't want to hear another rant about sexism, because Kay's both right and wrong, and they both know it, and bitching about it to each other isn't going to change it. Gee's made up his mind and that's not going to change either.
Kay's never been one for small talk, and Megan isn't really in the mood, so she lets the silence lengthen--it's more relaxed now, edges smoothed by the steady beat of rain on the roof, the roll and boom of thunder, the wet whoosh of tires on pavement. She times her breathing to the rubbery squeak of the windshield wipers, the even pulse of her heart.
She looks out the window at the rain spattering the street, making everything blurry and gray, and closes her eyes against the dry burn of her grief.
*
They make awkward conversation about Beau as Kay looks through his suits. It feels invasive, so different from the way they pick over a crime scene, though Megan knows it's really not different at all. She stares out the window, remembers the last time she saw him, the last time they were together. Remembers the feel of his hair, stiff and sticky with gel, against her palm, so different from the smooth silk of his suit jacket.
Kay puts a hand on Megan's arm, same as she had earlier, when they couldn't get the door to the house open. Megan doesn't remember Kay being so tactile, but she doesn't mind. She's actually grateful for it, though she doesn't think she could ever find the words to tell Kay that. She's pretty sure Kay knows.
"Let's get out of here, huh?"
Megan nods, swallows hard against the tightness in her chest, the sudden sting of tears she refuses to let fall now that they've finally arrived.
When they're back in the car, she says, "I could use a drink."
Kay lets out a shaky laugh, looks over at her with a sheepish grin. "I was just thinking that."
They don't discuss it, but Megan is relieved when Kay leads her to the Wharf Rat instead of the Waterfront. She doesn't want to see anyone she knows behind the bar, just wants to have a drink and figure out how to do this, remember how she did it when Mike died.
"So Munch's brother is taking care of the coffin," Kay says when they're sitting in a booth in the back, sipping at cold pints of beer. Drops of condensation roll down the side of the glass, and Megan wipes at them with her thumb. It's warm in the bar, ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead doing nothing but pushing humid air around. She shifts uncomfortably, unbuttons her jacket, and pushes her damp fingers through her hair.
Kay takes a long sip of beer, eyes closed, throat moving slowly as she swallows. She leans back and Megan can see the effort it takes her to relax, let her body go slack under the weight she's carrying.
"So how've you been?" Kay asks. "How's France?"
Megan laughs a little. "It's...different. It's great. I love it." All of which is true. She'd needed the change, embraced it whole-heartedly when it had happened. She tells the story of Caroline's attempts to learn French, of the first nearly disastrous dinner party she hosted, which was saved by her mother-in-law's quick thinking.
Kay laughs with her whole body, mouth open, and the sound is low, throaty; it vibrates through the thick air and through Megan's body like music. Under the table, Kay's shoeless foot brushes against Megan's calf too often for it to be an accident. The third time, Megan presses her calf against the warm arch of Kay's socked foot, oddly comforted by even that small amount of contact. Kay's fair skin is flushed and her mouth glistens, pink and inviting. She's watching Megan carefully, and Megan can see when the gleam in her eye changes from friendly to intent.
When Megan gets up to go to the ladies' room, Kay follows. Megan almost makes a tired joke about women going to the restroom in packs, but doesn't. There's no need for it. She pushes Kay against the door to hold it shut, and presses a soft kiss against her lips. Kay gasps, and Megan tastes beer and cherry Chaptstick, and a grief that matches her own. Megan's breath hitches, and Kay tilts her head, looks at her curiously.
"It's okay," Kay says, one hand coming up to cup Megan's cheek. Her nails are short, blunt, dark polish chipped away. Megan stares for a moment at the array of earrings in Kay's left ear, the handcuff gleaming silver in the harsh fluorescent light, then turns her face into Kay's hand, kisses her palm.
Kay tips her chin up, presses another kiss against her mouth, tongue licking at Megan's lips this time, seeking entrance, and Megan opens to her. Kay is gentle, but determined, relentless; she kisses the way she works a case, questions a suspect in the Box, and Megan gives up, confesses, begs forgiveness with the slick, shocked slide of her tongue against Kay's.
Megan reaches up to tangle her fingers in Kay's hair, letting it brush over her hands like raw silk, even better than she'd imagined. She can feel Kay's breath whispering over her skin, Kay's hands slipping beneath her blouse to skim her belly, her breasts, and something loosens inside her chest--a sob, finally breaking free.
Kay pulls back, startled, fear flashing in her eyes for a second before disappearing. The warm places on Megan's body where Kay's hands were feel cold now that they're gone, and Megan wishes Kay would touch her again. As if she understands, Kay reaches out, smears away the sudden tears with her thumbs.
"Hey," she says. "Hey. It's okay." She looks uncertain, bruised, worn, and if Megan turns her head to look in the mirror, she knows she'll see the same look on her own face.
She chokes on another sob and surges forward, into Kay's arms, seeking the warmth of her body, the instinctive solace of touch. Kay folds her into a tight embrace, cradles the back of her head gently, makes soft soothing noises, more comforting than actual words could ever be.
When Megan looks up, she can see herself in the mirror, eyes red and ringed with running mascara, full of grief and resignation, which is reflected in Kay's eyes.
Kay turns away, rebuilding her walls automatically, immediately. She fumbles with the paper towel dispenser, mumbles curses under her breath, then hands the coarse brown paper to Megan.
"I'll just...wait out there," she says awkwardly, jerking her thumb at the door and then pulling it open.
Megan nods, swallowing back the last of her tears. She washes her face, cleans off the makeup that can't be redone just yet, and reapplies her lipstick from the tube in her pocket. She runs a hand through her hair, reties her scarf, smoothes down her blouse, and looks herself in the eye.
With a brief, sharp nod at her reflection, she squares her shoulders, and heads back out into the bar.
end
***
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Megan doesn't cry when she gets the news.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fontana's and Levinson's and NBC's.
Notes: Thanks to luzdeestrellas and vaznetti for betaing. All remaining errors are mine. Written for erinpoetchica in the 2006 yuletide exchange. Set during the season five finale. Title from Walt Whitman.
Word count: 2,045
Date finished: December 12, 2006
Date posted: December 25, 2006
~*~
The Unloosen'd Ocean
Megan doesn't cry when she gets the news. She has a new husband, a new life here in Paris, and Baltimore--homicide, Beau--seems very far away.
She decides not to go to the funeral. This is her life now, and she doesn't need to deal with Beth, with Kay, with Gee or Munch. Doesn't need to think about another police who ate his gun, especially not one she knows the way she knows Beau. She's out of practice at the sudden shift from present to past tense, and doesn't want to relearn it. Doesn't need to see the closed casket and remember what his hands felt like on her body, his lips against hers, soft and wet and hot and secret.
She sits up late that night, alone, drinking glass after glass of Bordeaux, remembering how sweet Beau could be, how he could make her so angry one minute and make her want him so desperately the next. She tells herself there was nothing she could have done for him. She almost believes it.
There is a tightness in her chest and throat, and she thinks she should be crying; she waits for the tears to fall, but they don't.
When she books her flight, her voice is steady, professional, and her eyes are dry. She doesn't think about anything but getting back to Baltimore (homicide, home), and finding out what happened.
*
The first thing that hits her when she walks into the squadroom is the smell--stale coffee and too many bodies stewing in some combination of fear, anger, and despair. It's not a pleasant smell, and it makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle after so many months away--she's not sure she ever noticed it before.
Everything else is the same--Munch is cracking wise, Gee is barking orders, and Frank is a control freak. The only difference--and it's not a subtle one--is that she no longer belongs here. She's not sure she ever did, but she used to try so hard to make herself fit, make the job fit her. Still, she can't imagine being anywhere else right now, now that it's too late to do anything but make sure they put this murder down, write Beau's name in black on the Board.
Kay pulls her into a brief, stiff hug, and Megan closes her eyes, inhales the clean scent of Kay's hair, and wonders yet again how Beau was able to make them both love him so fiercely, and in such different ways.
She's glad he had that, at least, and sad that even Kay didn't keep up with him in the end. Maybe they all go out that way--alone, scared. Live by the gun, die by it, too.
*
They're all still reeling from the news that Beau was working for IID when Gee takes her and Kay off the case.
Kay begs and pleads, but Gee is implacable, immoveable. And Megan can't say he's wrong, necessarily. It's not that Frank is a better detective than Kay (even Frank might hesitate before saying that), so much as Frank is far less emotionally involved--Frank can look at Beau's name in red under his and see a fellow police in need of avenging, but he doesn't feel the sick twist of failure in his gut; he and Beau were coworkers, but never friends. Aside from Bayliss, Megan's not sure Frank has any friends, and the stroke hasn't changed that.
So, when Gee says, "I need you to make a funeral," she understands, at least on the intellectual level. It's important that it be done by people who loved him, who care. In her gut, though, it still feels like a dismissal, like disrespect, like he's sending the women away to weep while the men do the real work. She does what he asks, anyway, because Beau deserves to be remembered as a hero, a person, a man who was loved. She does it, because otherwise, she and Kay will be shut out altogether, and she doesn't think either of them could possibly bear that.
*
"You're a redhead now, huh," Kay says, after the silence in the car has become uncomfortable.
"Yes."
Kay glances over, then back at the street. "Looks good."
Megan smiles, genuinely pleased by the compliment. "Not like you, though. You have beautiful hair." Megan knows she's an attractive woman, and she's never been one for jealousy, but Kay's hair is like something out of a masterpiece by Titian, and Megan's always admired beautiful things where she finds them. She knows Kay and Beau never slept together, but she used to wonder if Beau imagined tangling his hands in it, how it would feel sweeping over his skin, tickling his thighs as Kay moved down his body.
She curls her hands into fists so she doesn't reach out now to feel it for herself, and wonders where that urge came from.
Kay shrugs. "Thanks," she says softly.
They talk about the case for a few minutes, but there's really nothing new to say, and she doesn't want to get Kay upset again, doesn't want to hear another rant about sexism, because Kay's both right and wrong, and they both know it, and bitching about it to each other isn't going to change it. Gee's made up his mind and that's not going to change either.
Kay's never been one for small talk, and Megan isn't really in the mood, so she lets the silence lengthen--it's more relaxed now, edges smoothed by the steady beat of rain on the roof, the roll and boom of thunder, the wet whoosh of tires on pavement. She times her breathing to the rubbery squeak of the windshield wipers, the even pulse of her heart.
She looks out the window at the rain spattering the street, making everything blurry and gray, and closes her eyes against the dry burn of her grief.
*
They make awkward conversation about Beau as Kay looks through his suits. It feels invasive, so different from the way they pick over a crime scene, though Megan knows it's really not different at all. She stares out the window, remembers the last time she saw him, the last time they were together. Remembers the feel of his hair, stiff and sticky with gel, against her palm, so different from the smooth silk of his suit jacket.
Kay puts a hand on Megan's arm, same as she had earlier, when they couldn't get the door to the house open. Megan doesn't remember Kay being so tactile, but she doesn't mind. She's actually grateful for it, though she doesn't think she could ever find the words to tell Kay that. She's pretty sure Kay knows.
"Let's get out of here, huh?"
Megan nods, swallows hard against the tightness in her chest, the sudden sting of tears she refuses to let fall now that they've finally arrived.
When they're back in the car, she says, "I could use a drink."
Kay lets out a shaky laugh, looks over at her with a sheepish grin. "I was just thinking that."
They don't discuss it, but Megan is relieved when Kay leads her to the Wharf Rat instead of the Waterfront. She doesn't want to see anyone she knows behind the bar, just wants to have a drink and figure out how to do this, remember how she did it when Mike died.
"So Munch's brother is taking care of the coffin," Kay says when they're sitting in a booth in the back, sipping at cold pints of beer. Drops of condensation roll down the side of the glass, and Megan wipes at them with her thumb. It's warm in the bar, ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead doing nothing but pushing humid air around. She shifts uncomfortably, unbuttons her jacket, and pushes her damp fingers through her hair.
Kay takes a long sip of beer, eyes closed, throat moving slowly as she swallows. She leans back and Megan can see the effort it takes her to relax, let her body go slack under the weight she's carrying.
"So how've you been?" Kay asks. "How's France?"
Megan laughs a little. "It's...different. It's great. I love it." All of which is true. She'd needed the change, embraced it whole-heartedly when it had happened. She tells the story of Caroline's attempts to learn French, of the first nearly disastrous dinner party she hosted, which was saved by her mother-in-law's quick thinking.
Kay laughs with her whole body, mouth open, and the sound is low, throaty; it vibrates through the thick air and through Megan's body like music. Under the table, Kay's shoeless foot brushes against Megan's calf too often for it to be an accident. The third time, Megan presses her calf against the warm arch of Kay's socked foot, oddly comforted by even that small amount of contact. Kay's fair skin is flushed and her mouth glistens, pink and inviting. She's watching Megan carefully, and Megan can see when the gleam in her eye changes from friendly to intent.
When Megan gets up to go to the ladies' room, Kay follows. Megan almost makes a tired joke about women going to the restroom in packs, but doesn't. There's no need for it. She pushes Kay against the door to hold it shut, and presses a soft kiss against her lips. Kay gasps, and Megan tastes beer and cherry Chaptstick, and a grief that matches her own. Megan's breath hitches, and Kay tilts her head, looks at her curiously.
"It's okay," Kay says, one hand coming up to cup Megan's cheek. Her nails are short, blunt, dark polish chipped away. Megan stares for a moment at the array of earrings in Kay's left ear, the handcuff gleaming silver in the harsh fluorescent light, then turns her face into Kay's hand, kisses her palm.
Kay tips her chin up, presses another kiss against her mouth, tongue licking at Megan's lips this time, seeking entrance, and Megan opens to her. Kay is gentle, but determined, relentless; she kisses the way she works a case, questions a suspect in the Box, and Megan gives up, confesses, begs forgiveness with the slick, shocked slide of her tongue against Kay's.
Megan reaches up to tangle her fingers in Kay's hair, letting it brush over her hands like raw silk, even better than she'd imagined. She can feel Kay's breath whispering over her skin, Kay's hands slipping beneath her blouse to skim her belly, her breasts, and something loosens inside her chest--a sob, finally breaking free.
Kay pulls back, startled, fear flashing in her eyes for a second before disappearing. The warm places on Megan's body where Kay's hands were feel cold now that they're gone, and Megan wishes Kay would touch her again. As if she understands, Kay reaches out, smears away the sudden tears with her thumbs.
"Hey," she says. "Hey. It's okay." She looks uncertain, bruised, worn, and if Megan turns her head to look in the mirror, she knows she'll see the same look on her own face.
She chokes on another sob and surges forward, into Kay's arms, seeking the warmth of her body, the instinctive solace of touch. Kay folds her into a tight embrace, cradles the back of her head gently, makes soft soothing noises, more comforting than actual words could ever be.
When Megan looks up, she can see herself in the mirror, eyes red and ringed with running mascara, full of grief and resignation, which is reflected in Kay's eyes.
Kay turns away, rebuilding her walls automatically, immediately. She fumbles with the paper towel dispenser, mumbles curses under her breath, then hands the coarse brown paper to Megan.
"I'll just...wait out there," she says awkwardly, jerking her thumb at the door and then pulling it open.
Megan nods, swallowing back the last of her tears. She washes her face, cleans off the makeup that can't be redone just yet, and reapplies her lipstick from the tube in her pocket. She runs a hand through her hair, reties her scarf, smoothes down her blouse, and looks herself in the eye.
With a brief, sharp nod at her reflection, she squares her shoulders, and heads back out into the bar.
end
***
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~