Chapter Text
What are they even yelling about? She knows it’s about the beer bottle he left on the end table, which left a water stain, but she knows it’s also not about that. At its root, it’s always about Luke. Which has led to John’s drinking. Which amplifies his anger. It's uncontrollable now, and honestly, it scares her sometimes. With each passing day, she wonders if she is soon to join the ranks of the battered wives of police officers. The women whose bruises they all pretend like they don’t see. The women they politely ignore, just like they’ve politely ignored her ever since her son was murdered.
This time, he throws a glass, a heavy tumbler still half full of some dark amber liquor. She sees it in his eyes for a half second, that moment when he understands his anger isn’t for her, and he turns and hurls the glass in the opposite direction. She jumps when it shatters though she’s trying hard to not react. He screams that he’s leaving. She screams back that he can fuck all the way off and never come home again. Now there’s a hole in the wall near the front door from his fist.
He wasn’t like this before. He was so staid and logical, but he also laughed and sweet talked her when she least expected it. That’s what she liked about him. But since losing Luke, he’s been stuck in the anger stage of grief, and now he reminds her too much of her father. They’d already grown apart over the last few years, with Luke being the only thing they seemed to have in common, and now she honestly wishes he wouldn’t come home again.
And she doesn’t see him for two blessedly quiet days, though she is aware that he’s been coming in and sleeping on the couch. But this day, she comes downstairs too early, running into him as he heads out the door to work, his arm in a sling and his hand in a cast. Good, she thinks.
That evening, right at five, the doorbell rings. It’s Agent Reyes, whom she hasn’t seen in months, carrying a briefcase that Barbara knows to be full of things related to Luke’s case. She doesn’t want to deal with this. Not today. Maybe never again.
“John’s not home yet.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I spoke to him earlier this week, and he asked me to come over at this time. Do you know when he’ll be home?”
“Honestly, I don’t know if he’s coming home this evening. He’s working himself to the bone, you know. And he didn’t mention you coming over today. I could call the precinct and see if they know where he is.” She says this hoping Agent Reyes will say not to bother and then leave, but she doesn’t, so Barbara calls, now hoping they’ll say he’s been kept late on a case and she can send the agent away. Instead, they tell her he’s already left for the day. It doesn’t answer the question of where he is, but it does open up the possibility that he’s on his way home and she’ll have to both see him and pretend that she can stand him. All she can do in the meantime is properly invite Agent Reyes – Monica, as she continues to insist on being called – to have a seat at the dining table while she makes her a cup of tea.
“Thank you. Just what I need to get this February chill out of me.” She takes a sip and smiles, but this smile speaks to what she saw as she entered – the crater in the wall that John made two days earlier. “John did that?” she asks finally, and Barbara nods. “Do you feel safe at home?”
“Yes,” she says simply, though she wants to say, ‘He’s mad at the world right now. He comes home, he drinks, and then he loses it. Not at me. Not yet. But at some point who’s to say?’ She’s been in therapy for five months, trying to learn how not to blame herself; John refuses to go, and until he understands where the blame lies, he’s going to keep punishing himself and eventually anyone who gets in the way of an answer. This she doesn’t share with the agent. She doesn’t want to have these conversations, not about emotions and grief. This woman has a role in the process, and it’s not to listen to tales of two heartbroken parents and a marriage falling to pieces.
“Is there anything?” she asks, giving her head a sharp tilt toward Agent Reyes’ briefcase, though she already knows the answer.
Monica’s smile is kind and gentle, and her eyes send out the apology before she speaks it.
Barbara doesn’t actually want to hear about any more suspects, each one exponentially less likely than the last, each one speaking to her husband’s growing desperation. What is the point? Luke is gone. None of this matters.
Sensing this, Monica offers to wait in her car, but Barbara feels bad, letting her continue sitting awkwardly at the table, able to offer her only more tea and feeble attempts at conversation.
John wanders in a few minutes before 6, clearly inebriated. “Agent Reyes,” he slurs, “I thought there was a reason I needed to come home today.”
He stumbles a little as he tries to get out of his coat with one arm in a sling. Barbara looks to her, expecting to see the same revulsion and frustration she feels in his presence. But instead, she sees the agent’s heart break in real time, a mix of pity and sympathy that only lasts for a second or two before she buttons it back down behind a steely professional mask.
“Detective Doggett, I’m disappointed to see you like this. You are not in any state to review these files. And judging from the hole in the wall and your broken hand, I’d say you haven’t been in the right state for some time,” she adds sternly as she stands to leave. “When you’ve sobered up, and when you can maintain that, I can continue working with you. Until then, be assured that I will continue our work, but I will be doing that alone.”
Like the guilty dog he is, John hangs his head down. Barbara escorts Monica towards the door, her own anger rising up again, but as they walk past John, still shamefaced, Monica stops.
“John,” she says in her softest voice, the very same one she uses for them whenever she speaks about Luke, and Barbara watches her husband immediately look up, his soul bare, looking lost and scared. “For Luke’s sake, you cannot let this person destroy you. You can’t give him that power because if you do, you’ll never be able to see justice done.”
And then, John cries.
Barbara can’t watch his naked display of emotion, the first tears John has shed in front of anyone in months, and she turns her attention back to Agent Reyes, just in time to see her raise a hand as though she were about to comfort him. Just before making contact she changes her mind and drops her hand.
The pink builds in her cheeks; she’s aware she’s made a social blunder, and she looks to Barbara, her eyes again apologizing before she speaks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.” Jealousy, surprisingly, is the first emotion that hits Barbara, then incredulity. Surely this woman couldn’t possibly have feelings for her husband, this sad sack of a man, the pitiful remains of the once charming and irresistible John Doggett.
Monica Reyes never comes to her home again.
John stops drinking.
Their marriage still ends.