Work Text:
A difference of opinion. An exchange of opposing viewpoints. We had words. Yep, I think that's just the euphemism I was searching for. We had words. Suitably ambiguous. Non-judgmental. Perfect.
Of course, anyone else might consider it a screaming, raging fight. The kind that breaks up marriages. Or partnerships. It may have broken up mine. I'm guessing the other witnesses in the bullpen feel that way. Apparently Simon thinks so too, judging from all the messages on the machine at the loft, and on my cell. I might have a better idea of what Simon's thinking if I'd actually been there to answer the phone. Somehow, after Jim and I got done tearing each other to shreds, I didn't feel like heading home and sharing space with him. I went by and got my stuff when I knew he wasn't there. The message light was flashing, and I checked. Maybe I'm flattering myself, but I think Simon sounded a little bit desperate. I wonder if Jim ever called him back.
I suppose it's karma that we weren't scheduled to work for three days. We almost always work the holidays, so the members of Major Crime with family can have the time. But no, this year, of course, we have the days before and after New Years off, so duty doesn't force us into proximity. Instead, we have three days to either cool off and mend fences, or ... I don't want to think about the "or".
I probably should have talked to Jim that first night. I sat in the damn motel room and dialed the number, if that counts for anything. Actually letting it ring and having Jim answer would have made it more meaningful. So sue me. I was pretty angry. I'm still pretty angry. Ironic in a way. The emotion is sharp and clear, like a knife that will cut forever, but the details of the actual disagreement seem sort of fuzzy. A week from now, when I've asked for a transfer or resigned, we'll probably look like the typical divorcing couple. You know, the ones who can't actually tell anyone why they've decided to hate each other, and the paperwork says "Irreconcilable Differences".
Irreconcilable differences. I guess that's a pretty good description. After all the years, and all the mileage, we're different. That's what it comes down to. Different enough to be childish, foolish enough to say it, and prideful enough to let it go unresolved.
In the end, we both reverted to type.
&&&&
Damn.
He was here. He must have waited for me to drive off. Doesn't matter. Even after a couple hours of Simon chewing my butt, and sulking over a lousy lunch and a worse afternoon, I can still catch his scent. He was here, alright, and a few missing toiletries and maybe a change of clothes are all I have to show for it. No note. No phone number. A cell he won't answer. Just an empty space and a lot of silence.
I know he's mad. Hell, we're both mad. He's totally wrong about Carlyle, and he had no right to ... to what, Jim? Have his own opinion? Give back as good as I gave him?
I sat up that first night, sure he'd show up after a beer or two, say he was sorry, and that would be that. I actually spent most of that time debating over whether to accept his apology or not. Shit, it wasn't until Simon left the third or fourth message that I allowed myself a moment of doubt. If Simon thought one of us on the verge of calling it quits, maybe we WERE on the verge.
Not good enough for me. I stormed off to bed, thinking to the devil with both of them. I guess I hadn't really set pride aside to contemplate what would happen if Sandburg didn't apologize. He always does. The better man, and all that.
The panic didn't set in until later, when I realized he'd come and gone. When the phone didn't ring. When Brown showed up on my doorstep with the decidedly worrisome news that he and Megan were making the rounds and no one had a clue where Sandburg was. Brown's usually a pretty mellow guy, but he had plenty to say before he left. A few things along the lines that everyone else was frantic and maybe I might consider catching a clue.
Oh, yeah, that was a shot. He got my attention.
In the last twenty-four hours, I've moved from the accepting-the-apology phase to the I'll-apologize-but-not-really phase to the we-can-probably-work-it-out phase. At one point, I considered that total capitulation on my part.
I was wrong. There's a lot more after probably-work-it-out, when the silence really registers. My anger sort of bleeds away when I'm looking the alternatives in the light of day. I pulled a few strings and put an APB out on his car. I need to find him.
Bingo. I should have known.
&&&&
What a way to spend New Year's Eve. Sort of like old times. Blair Sandburg, anthro nerd extraordinaire, warming a seat in the library. The only discernable difference from ten years ago is the library. I don't have the credentials anymore to talk my way into the University library over a vacation. The main public branch in downtown Cascade doesn't have that same comfortable, intellectual, musty ambiance, but it will do. The internet hookups are good, and the place is certainly empty enough.
It's official, I've absolutely reverted to type. Years in the world according to Ellison haven't changed me. I've convinced the librarian to let me stay after hours, and a little mindless research will chase away all your pain. It always has.
God, what time is it? Everyone's gone. I should know better than to let my brain go out for a walk without watching it. One minute I'm watching video feeds of New Year's celebrations in Paris and London and then I end up here. Why did I think it would be cute to have my laptop sing Auld Lang Syne to me? Why did I just HAVE to look up the translations of the Scottish phrases? They call it, "The song nobody knows." So why did I end up reading the rest of the verses, on tonight of all nights?
We two have run about the hills
And pulled the daisies fine
But we have wandered many a weary foot
Since days of long ago.
We two have waded in the stream
From dawn till dinner-time
But seas between us broad have roared
Since days of long ago.
And there's a hand my trusty friend !
And give me a hand of thine !
And we will take a large draught
For days of long ago.
&&&&
"Sandburg?"
"Damn you, Jim!"
"Didn't mean to scare you."
"What else could you possibly do when you sneak up behind me like that? How did you get in here, anyway?"
"I didn't sneak; you had the music too loud. Well, too loud if you have my ears. And I picked the lock, if you must know."
"This isn't the loft. I can play this as loud as I damn well please. And when it's a public building, it's breaking and entering, big time. I should cuff you and take you in."
"Don't."
"Don't what, Jim? Don't breathe unless you say so? Don't have an opinion? Don't have a life?"
"Just don't. I've never seen the rest of the words before. Let it play."
"I've never known you to be much of a poet, man."
"Seas between us roared. That's one way to put it. No, Chief, please, don't say anything. We both know. Just come home."
"Are you sure, Jim? Really sure?"
He doesn't answer. He just taps the mouse. Auld Lang Syne, indeed.