Chapter Text
Sarah showed up at Holder's door because it's exactly what he would have done. There was no Chinese takeout this time, just a few words to hopefully bring him comfort. She isn't exactly a nurturer. Her calming voice belies the fact that beyond words, she hardly knows what to do in these situations. A sense of quiet is her only arsenal, brought forth from the room in her house that nobody sees.
"It's ok. It doesn't matter. Everything will be ok."
His desperate sob laid waste to every calming platitude in her vocabulary. The words flowed freely, but even Sarah couldn't hide how she truly felt, shaking her head in disagreement. No, it will not be ok. Nothing will be ok.
Stephen has become a wild animal, a feral child, much like she was, much like she still is. That piece of her is locked away in a room upstairs, a room that nobody sees but for a moment as she escapes the door to walk among the civilized. There is no window in that room, only a light-switch that moves as soon as it's put out. The walls are darker every morning, the door in different places. She never knows where she'll awaken.
He has a room of his own. He's flung the door wide.
His motion toward her might have lasted for years. The heavy silence, the desperate fear in his eyes, the need to feel anything but loss. He fell into her, and she nearly collapsed. She has lived this in dreams: it is recurring and terrifying, how tangled they are without ever touching hands, brushing lips, or snaking arms. She has made this mistake so many times. Her senior partner, her psyche's savior, her blissfully ignorant friend. This time is different. There is no imbalance of power, no grasp for acknowledgement, no secrets and no lies. Their souls are laid bare, and there's no tie so strong as knowing you've both so frequently failed. Failed to assimilate, failed to meet expectations, failed to live beyond the reptilian.
As he leaned toward a kiss, she envisioned its end. For a brief moment she closed her eyes, and the draw seemed so natural. She let him see that room, but she will not let him in.
She is not a drug. He is not a window. She is not a fix. He is not a light.
Stephen's shame was raw. The noise escaping from deep within his body was familiar as a parent's grieving cry. Sarah has delivered "I'm sorry" many times over her career, but never has she needed to hold a man up. To touch his skin would break a door. She placed a hand on his back, like he has done for her so many times before. You are lost in your grief, but I am the real. I won't drag you back, but I am here when you return.
She sat back on the couch as he continued to sob. He buried his head in his hands and couldn't bear the thought of looking at her, couldn't bear the thought of seeing her uncertainty. Having taken her hand away prior, she reached out to reassure him again. His cries grew quieter, his body stilled. He never looked her in the eyes, just let his body sink toward her, his head coming to a rest in her lap. Only then did she wrap an arm over him, safe to let him rest.