(no subject)
Title: Vanilla Extract
Author: _wind_dream_
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Diego/Mia
Spoiler Warning(s): Case 3-4
Summary: Ever since she had popped up on his doorstep, a shaking, nightmare-ridden wreck, she'd taken to sitting.
She had been sitting on his couch for the past two... days. In terms of actual minutes and seconds, it was really two hours, but in the grand scheme of things he figured it was all the same to her.
Ever since she had popped up on his doorstep, a shaking, nightmare-ridden wreck, she'd taken to sitting. The only real standing she'd ever done was yesterday, when he'd finally coaxed her into changing into some extra clothes of his, if just to get her out of the suit she'd been wearing since that trial. Which in and of itself had been almost a breakthrough, considering the ferocity with which she'd slammed the bathroom door in his face.
Otherwise, that was all she ever did - sit, that is. Sit, fold her hands in her lap... and stare at the opposite wall. Sit and wait until about nine or ten, when she would curl up right there on the couch and attempt to sleep, blanket or not. He had noticed that she was rarely successful.
He imagined that even though he hadn't yet and never intended to decorate that particular wall, she saw enough images during her sitting sessions to make up an hour-long special that the television companies would kill for. Maybe even a forty-eight hour special. There were times when she'd close her eyes, or put her hands over her face... but since when had covering her eyes ever stopped a little girl from watching the scariest part of a movie?
“You ever planning on leaving my apartment, Kitten?”
She blinked. That was about it.
"About it" because she did tip her head to the side a little, in his direction. Maybe. This Mia Fey didn't move much.
That was the root of the problem, really. That case had de-clawed his little Kitten without his consent.
He sauntered over from his place against the doorway of the kitchen, and set the mug in his hand on the table, directly in front of her. She watched him set it down, but as he drew away from it, he found that her gaze was following his hand, not the mug. He placed the hand casually in his pocket, and, apparently unwilling to stare at his pants, she let her eyes drift up to his face.
He gave her the best grin he'd made in the past two days. She frowned, and her brow furrowed.
“... Has the bleeding not stopped yet?”
He drew his hand back out and stared very thoughtfully at the bandaging wrapped around it. It was, for the most part, white - only stained brownish-red sporadically around his palm and the base of his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mia's mouth turn down slightly. He put the hand back out of sight.
“How are we supposed to know we're alive if we don't bleed a little every now and then?”
She leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes and folding her arms. “Mr. Armando....”
“What I'm more concerned about,” he cut in briskly, plopping onto the couch beside her and stretching his arms out across the back cushions, “is what in the hell the old man was thinking forcing us to take days off like this.”
“... Mr. Grossberg knows what happened. He just thinks we need to... regroup.”
“And since when is whatever he thinks automatically true?” She opened her eyes to stare at him, but otherwise she was silent. He went for a toned-down smile this time, and leaned forward to grab the handle of the mug that, clearly, she'd overlooked.
He put the rim to his lips and took one, small swig. Satisfied, he extended it out to her. “Come on, Kitten. Drink it. Made it specially for you.”
Almost automatically, her hands rose to take the mug from him. He let it go, then leaned back across the empty space of the couch and focused all his attention on a speck on the ceiling. Coffee was a personal experience.
Still, he couldn't help seeing her just a little. After all, he himself could testify that the particular blend of coffee she was currently holding was damn good. But she simply held it in front of her face, looking at it - looking but not necessarily seeing. She didn't sniff it, didn't drink it, didn't chuck it in his face for being careless enough to give her something to drink after what had just happened.
Of course, the only reason she was still thinking about things like that was because Grossberg wasn't letting her distract herself with the boring paperwork back at the office like she usually did.
“... It smells like vanilla.”
... Progress. Sort of.
“Ever the keen observer, aren't you, Kitten?”
She tilted her head to the side to look at him, and he met her gaze evenly. Plus a grin. For fun.
She frowned. “... You can get vanilla flavored coffee anywhere. Mr. Hammond keeps some in the kitchen at the office.”
“Not since I dumped it.” He made himself laugh for her sake. “Don't drink that stuff, Kitten, it's sewage. It'll pollute you for life.”
... There. That. She almost smiled.
“Now this.” He reached across her to tap the mug in her hand. “This is the real stuff. I'd tell you to drink it nice and slow, but first you actually have to drink it.”
The body of the mug was cool enough to touch by now. She was very carefully wrapping her fingers around it, shifting her gaze back to the liquid inside. He'd even added milk and sugar - with the vanilla, it was a surefire way to mask the coffee's natural bitterness. But still... she made no movement to drink it.
Several moments passed. Then she just... lowered it into her lap and clutched it, her head bowed.
“... Mia....”
“I....” The whisper came out low and hoarse. “I can't breathe, Diego.”
For a brief, shameful moment, he wondered if Mia Fey was ever coming back. If she could ever come back.
“... Sure you can.” Carefully, he reached around her, wrapping his own hand around the mug - his bandaged hand over both of hers. “You're just forgetting how for a bit.”
She didn't seem to acknowledge him, but when she spoke again, her voice was hard. Not shaking, but about ten times emptier. “... He's dead.”
“... Yeah. He is.”
His fingers managed to find the handle of the mug and draw it away from her. He held it loosely, studying it. She did not react.
“I'm still going to help. In case you forgot.”
That made her glance up, and as soon as she did he locked his gaze with hers. It was enough to force her not to look down again.
“Little Miss Sunshine's going to get what's coming to her. Isn't that right... Ms. Fey?”
He offered the mug back to her one last time. The coffee was probably lukewarm by now and well beyond it's prime condition, but he supposed that he could let it slide just this once.
She took it, but this time paused only for a second to stare at it. She lifted it to her lips and took one, long drink.
When she looked at him again, she was smiling. It was small and sedated, but they'd made it. And she hadn't shed a single tear on the way there.
Author: _wind_dream_
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Diego/Mia
Spoiler Warning(s): Case 3-4
Summary: Ever since she had popped up on his doorstep, a shaking, nightmare-ridden wreck, she'd taken to sitting.
She had been sitting on his couch for the past two... days. In terms of actual minutes and seconds, it was really two hours, but in the grand scheme of things he figured it was all the same to her.
Ever since she had popped up on his doorstep, a shaking, nightmare-ridden wreck, she'd taken to sitting. The only real standing she'd ever done was yesterday, when he'd finally coaxed her into changing into some extra clothes of his, if just to get her out of the suit she'd been wearing since that trial. Which in and of itself had been almost a breakthrough, considering the ferocity with which she'd slammed the bathroom door in his face.
Otherwise, that was all she ever did - sit, that is. Sit, fold her hands in her lap... and stare at the opposite wall. Sit and wait until about nine or ten, when she would curl up right there on the couch and attempt to sleep, blanket or not. He had noticed that she was rarely successful.
He imagined that even though he hadn't yet and never intended to decorate that particular wall, she saw enough images during her sitting sessions to make up an hour-long special that the television companies would kill for. Maybe even a forty-eight hour special. There were times when she'd close her eyes, or put her hands over her face... but since when had covering her eyes ever stopped a little girl from watching the scariest part of a movie?
“You ever planning on leaving my apartment, Kitten?”
She blinked. That was about it.
"About it" because she did tip her head to the side a little, in his direction. Maybe. This Mia Fey didn't move much.
That was the root of the problem, really. That case had de-clawed his little Kitten without his consent.
He sauntered over from his place against the doorway of the kitchen, and set the mug in his hand on the table, directly in front of her. She watched him set it down, but as he drew away from it, he found that her gaze was following his hand, not the mug. He placed the hand casually in his pocket, and, apparently unwilling to stare at his pants, she let her eyes drift up to his face.
He gave her the best grin he'd made in the past two days. She frowned, and her brow furrowed.
“... Has the bleeding not stopped yet?”
He drew his hand back out and stared very thoughtfully at the bandaging wrapped around it. It was, for the most part, white - only stained brownish-red sporadically around his palm and the base of his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mia's mouth turn down slightly. He put the hand back out of sight.
“How are we supposed to know we're alive if we don't bleed a little every now and then?”
She leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes and folding her arms. “Mr. Armando....”
“What I'm more concerned about,” he cut in briskly, plopping onto the couch beside her and stretching his arms out across the back cushions, “is what in the hell the old man was thinking forcing us to take days off like this.”
“... Mr. Grossberg knows what happened. He just thinks we need to... regroup.”
“And since when is whatever he thinks automatically true?” She opened her eyes to stare at him, but otherwise she was silent. He went for a toned-down smile this time, and leaned forward to grab the handle of the mug that, clearly, she'd overlooked.
He put the rim to his lips and took one, small swig. Satisfied, he extended it out to her. “Come on, Kitten. Drink it. Made it specially for you.”
Almost automatically, her hands rose to take the mug from him. He let it go, then leaned back across the empty space of the couch and focused all his attention on a speck on the ceiling. Coffee was a personal experience.
Still, he couldn't help seeing her just a little. After all, he himself could testify that the particular blend of coffee she was currently holding was damn good. But she simply held it in front of her face, looking at it - looking but not necessarily seeing. She didn't sniff it, didn't drink it, didn't chuck it in his face for being careless enough to give her something to drink after what had just happened.
Of course, the only reason she was still thinking about things like that was because Grossberg wasn't letting her distract herself with the boring paperwork back at the office like she usually did.
“... It smells like vanilla.”
... Progress. Sort of.
“Ever the keen observer, aren't you, Kitten?”
She tilted her head to the side to look at him, and he met her gaze evenly. Plus a grin. For fun.
She frowned. “... You can get vanilla flavored coffee anywhere. Mr. Hammond keeps some in the kitchen at the office.”
“Not since I dumped it.” He made himself laugh for her sake. “Don't drink that stuff, Kitten, it's sewage. It'll pollute you for life.”
... There. That. She almost smiled.
“Now this.” He reached across her to tap the mug in her hand. “This is the real stuff. I'd tell you to drink it nice and slow, but first you actually have to drink it.”
The body of the mug was cool enough to touch by now. She was very carefully wrapping her fingers around it, shifting her gaze back to the liquid inside. He'd even added milk and sugar - with the vanilla, it was a surefire way to mask the coffee's natural bitterness. But still... she made no movement to drink it.
Several moments passed. Then she just... lowered it into her lap and clutched it, her head bowed.
“... Mia....”
“I....” The whisper came out low and hoarse. “I can't breathe, Diego.”
For a brief, shameful moment, he wondered if Mia Fey was ever coming back. If she could ever come back.
“... Sure you can.” Carefully, he reached around her, wrapping his own hand around the mug - his bandaged hand over both of hers. “You're just forgetting how for a bit.”
She didn't seem to acknowledge him, but when she spoke again, her voice was hard. Not shaking, but about ten times emptier. “... He's dead.”
“... Yeah. He is.”
His fingers managed to find the handle of the mug and draw it away from her. He held it loosely, studying it. She did not react.
“I'm still going to help. In case you forgot.”
That made her glance up, and as soon as she did he locked his gaze with hers. It was enough to force her not to look down again.
“Little Miss Sunshine's going to get what's coming to her. Isn't that right... Ms. Fey?”
He offered the mug back to her one last time. The coffee was probably lukewarm by now and well beyond it's prime condition, but he supposed that he could let it slide just this once.
She took it, but this time paused only for a second to stare at it. She lifted it to her lips and took one, long drink.
When she looked at him again, she was smiling. It was small and sedated, but they'd made it. And she hadn't shed a single tear on the way there.