It isn't SJR, but it's a lot of John angst. It is a post-episode story of Where or When?
Before I do anything, I have to thank Glenna for telling me what worked, and what didn't, even if I had to get rid of some of my fave stuff. ; ) Thanks!!
They aren't mine. They belong first of all to the actors. Besides, *we* should be suing NBC and the others for the defamation of these characters.
The thing with private jets is that it's too easy to fall asleep. On a commercial flight, you're surrounded by people you don't know, your seat is too small, and the flight attendants always hit you with trays on their way to first class. It's horrible. Here I can stretch out, get a window seat if I want it, and it's practically silent. Sleep is unavoidable.
But I really don't want to dream right now.
I'm sitting at the table in the farthest reaches of the plane, next to a window. Below me I see nothing but darkness. It's nearly one in the morning and the early fog is blotting out any lights. The black suits my mood, and makes me sink further into myself, makes me acknowledge what's bothering me. I turn back to the dim cabin lights.
I have a view of the entire plane from where I sit. I like that; I like knowing where everyone is, what everyone is doing. Grace is leaning back in her seat, her head bent at an angle she'll regret when she wakes up. Her mouth is slightly open. Thankfully she doesn't snore.
George and Bailey are huddled up front, almost as far away from the others as I am. I think Bailey knows that I have things to deal with, and company isn't exactly what I'm looking for. Besides, from the looks of it, they have something to hide themselves.
Whatever they are talking about something, I know it must be big. George doesn't look happy, and Bailey seems exhausted. He never looks tired. I've worked with the man for three years, and the only time I've ever seen him sleep was when he was in the hospital. I wonder if Sam knows what they are discussing. I doubt it. It's probably about her anyway. And she wouldn't be asleep if she knew something was wrong.
Sam is at her usual booth, papers and books scattered around the table's surface. Her arms are crossed on the table, her head resting in the crook of her elbow. I can't see her face clearly; she has a mass of blond hair covering her. For the first time in a long time, she looks peaceful. I resent it, even though I know that is unfair.
This case brought feelings to the surface I didn't know I could feel anymore, memories I'd forgotten I'd had. For years I've been ignoring what I don't want to deal with, fighting the nightmares, forcing the fear down. One case, one rooftop confrontation, and it all comes rushing back.
When we found James, or Nick, or whoever he was, I couldn't help but wonder if I had put us in this situation. I was the one that lost him. I'm trained to follow people. But I lost him all the same.
James went into that convenience store, and a part of me didn't want to go after him. Somewhere inside I was able to rationalize what he was doing. The men he killed weren't exactly going to be missed, especially by the women in their lives. I know that Randall Stahl's wife wasn't too broken up over his death. Why should she be? Fear, lies, cuts, black eyes….
I've been there. And that little boy inside sympathized with poor James Ledbetter. He understood. But I'm not a child anymore. I'm a cop, and I couldn't let this continue. So, after letting him get away, I found him, dragging a defenseless man up to the roof.
When Bailey and Sam arrived, I was trying to talk him down. He didn't want to listen. Then Sam stepped into the picture, which is when my past blew up in my face.
I keep hearing her voice.
'What could he do to save her?'
Taken her place. Arrested him before he killed her. Killed him before he killed her. Anything.
'You were her son.'
A lot of good that did her, huh? I'm the Son of the Year, right here.
The plane touches ground, jolting me back to reality. Quickly I grab my jacket, and race to leave. I'm at the luggage terminal before anyone catches up to me.
"John."
Bailey. There is no one else near us. Even airports are quiet in the middle of the night. I turn around. I see the others just walking through the door.
He looks me over before speaking. All he says is, "Take it easy."
I nod, grab my bag and I'm out of the building before the rest of the team has even found Bailey. During the drive home, I relive the rooftop. I turn up the radio, but it can't drown out her voice.
'There was nothing he could do.'
Bull. I could have stayed out of the papers. Fifteen years of hiding, and I blow it because I was stupid and didn't think about what it meant to get my picture in the paper, name change or not. I would have gone back to O'Doyle on hands and knees if it meant he'd leave my mother alone.
'She was his mother. A mother will do anything to save her child. It's her most powerful instinct.'
My mom took that to heart, that's for sure. She worked two jobs, and raised an admittedly obnoxious kid just to keep him alive. It would have been so much easier if she had left me to my own devices, and left. Instead, she stayed with me and saved my life. And look what happened to her because of it.
I'm stuck at a red light. Drunk teenagers in the car next to mine are hooting and whistling at the Porsche, challenging me. They cheer when I rev the engine, thinking I've accepted the race; I just want to get home.
When I reach my apartment, I fumble with bags and keys. Predictably my bags tumble to the ground and because my porch light has burned out, it takes me five minutes to find the right key.
'What she did she did out of love.'
Everything she did was out of love. She died because of it. My mother is dead because she loved me.
'And she never would have blamed him.'
Of course not. I do that on my own. What bothers me the most is that I *know* she never blamed me. Even when she was dying in that twisted hunk of metal, I know she loved me.
I'm in my bedroom. The only thing I've managed to do is remove my tie. I huddle under my blankets, trying to get warm. It isn't working. I don't want to sleep tonight.
Pursuing your dreams isn't always the best way to go.
'She would have been proud of you. She *was* proud of you.'
Why? Because I'm thirty years old and I'm scared of my dreams? Because I got my mother killed? There's nothing to be proud of. I carry a badge and a gun, I have the entire backing of one of the most elite FBI teams in the world, and I'm still too afraid to arrest the man who made my life a living hell.
'You were her hero.'
Yeah, right.