Fic: "Last Man Standing" (Mac) PG-13
Title: Last Man Standing
Rating: PG-13 for implied situations and imagery
Summary: Sometimes you don’t know what you really need.
Spoilers: vague spoilers for “Tanglewood” and “Run Silent, Run Deep”
Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of Jerry Bruckheimer, Alliance Atlantis, CBS, etc.
A/N #1: Inspired by a multitude of things-a song, discussions with stellaluna_, a frustration about a particular type of fic, and a random idea that wouldn’t let go. Credit to stellaluna_ for the beta as always.
A/N #2: Yes, I gave Mac a real name. I have a hard time believing that his real first name is Mac. However, as an abbreviation for something else? No problem. And since I live by stellaluna_’s fanon, he came from money. And in coming from money, had a formal, familial name that he decided to shed, in a sense, by going by Mac. For the curious, I’ll put it at the very end.
That day was the same as any dry and dusty day in Southern California, sun beating down on the pavement, stifling heat, and a view as picturesque as any unbearably hot day in downtown LA could be. Covered in smog. It’s quiet though, early in the day, a good long while before my regulars come down after the shift change from the railyards.
I like to think of myself as a reasonable woman, able to read people and situations pretty well after 10 years of owning this bar and all the trouble that has come with it. A lot of people don't always take me seriously, being a woman and all, but oh well. Part of the job hazards. Besides, that’s what I’ve got Mikey for in the evenings.
The day wasn’t anything unusual until this man-tall, dark and handsome-- walks into my bar. Something about him draws my attention, both aesthetically and in curiosity. He’s definitely not the normal type lug that shuffles through here each day, lean and graceful compared to the boxy oafs that usually take up space on my barstools. He carries himself differently, and I know he's never been here before, cause I'd definitely remember him. In more than one way, if I was lucky.
He looks like a soldier of time-- good posture and confident stride probably his normal gait, but his heavy footfalls seem much too weighted for a person of his age. His shoulders are sunken, pulled down by something in his past-- maybe a few somethings, by the looks of him. He looks like he's been kicked while he's down one too many times, but he’s still here… and in my bar, strangely enough.
He takes an empty seat at the corner of the bar, looking up to meet my eyes briefly as he orders a beer. He won’t look directly at me, but rather he’s taking in his surroundings without actually looking around him. Two types behave like that, cops and criminals. And somehow, I doubt handsome here’s the latter.
He looks up at me again when I set the beer down in front of him, studying me carefully for a second, and I look right back, holding my ground. Definitely a cop. He’s got beautiful light eyes, but they're dark and haunted. Why are all the handsome ones either jerks or messed up beyond repair? I'm a bartender, not Ms. Fix-It. There are days where I wish the world would just figure that out already and send me a nice guy that doesn’t need to be fixed. I figure it’ll be any minute now before he starts telling me the woes of his life, just like they all do.
He surprises me though, a quiet one. Although I guess I shouldn’t be really surprised that he is, since he’s already the biggest anomaly that’s walked through my doors in years. He keeps looking down at the bottle, swirling it around slowly after drinking each sip. Lord knows he looks like he needs to get drunk or spill his guts before he explodes. Quite possibly both. Since it seems he's not going to make my job any easier by doing either, I'll have to do the talking. And the getting him drunk.
"Haven't seen you before around here before."
"Haven't been here long."
He speaks with an Eastern accent of some sort, maybe Chicago or a faded New York accent. Either way, Midwest or East coast, he’s a long way from home sitting here. Probably running away from his past in the sunny land of fake veneer, following the masses of people who come with dreams of something bigger, or just something that's not where they were. He seems like he would be the persevering kind, one that would not just run away if things got too bad, so to put him in the state that he's in-well, I can't imagine.
He's definitely not a talker, that's for sure. By now, most of them are telling me their life stories. Or have at least offered me a drink or tried to flirt. Even the quiet ones will have had a few shots in the time he’s taken to finish half of a beer. His thick fingers peel at the label, and they look rather soft compared to the meaty railmen’s hands. I doubt, however, that he’s been an idle man, and they probably have calluses that you feel rather than see.
I could imagine those fingers doing a few things that I wouldn't mind so much-which stops me in my tracks for a second. Sure, I've been attracted to customers before, but quiet and handsome over here seems to have a draw that I just can't explain. And me and my big mouth don't always have the best control over the internal 'edit button'. So call me crazy or stupid or whatever, but something tells me that I just want to know about this one. Since he wasn’t being real forthcoming, I figured it was my job to wheedle it out of him.
"What's your name handsome?"
When he looks up, it's to stare into space, almost like he's seeing a movie projected for his eyes only on the far wall. He hesitates, fingers curling and pulling at the label spastically as I ask him, and he looks up at me, answering quietly.
"William…"
"William? That seems awful formal. You don't go by something else? You look like a Billy, or even a Mac to me."
Handsome, well, 'William', looks away, but not before I get a glimpse of a searing hurt in those pretty eyes of his. Apparently I've struck a nerve, and maybe he is a Billy or Mac. Mac, I suspect. Billy seems too immature for a man who carries himself like he does.
I feel bad though-part of me is curious as to why he would react in such a way, but it seems it would be kinda cruel to dredge up something that would have cowed him this much. My lucky… not really guess, per se, makes me think more about him. He's not from here, nor does he seem to be comfortable. And some strange woman poking about in his business may upset him even more, but I'm pretty sure he's not the kind that would hit a lady.
"William," he says again, tentatively, like a newborn fawn trying to stand. Probably an alias, guess he wants to be anonymous. Chances are I'm not going to learn his real name. Not like I need that to hear his story, even though it'd be nice.
"All right, 'William', how did a handsome man like you end up in my bar at this time of day, in a place that you obviously are not from? I could see walking in that you're not the LA type, and not too many suits end up in a place like this."
He looks down at his open-collared shirt and slacks and glances over at the jacket almost discarded on the barstool beside him, almost like he's forgotten that he's been wearing them. He looks up at me, with an affronted look on his face like he's insulted that I would even ask such things.
"Miss…"
"Darla."
"Darla… I don't think that's necessary information…." He looks back down at the bar, starting to roll the edge of the bottle again in slow circles like he has been between drinks.
Sigh. He’s a tough one. Getting information out of him isn’t going to be easy, it seems. At least when he's this sober .Why is it I get stuck with the troublesome ones? We’ll just have to work on that. And his bowed shoulders and vacant stare practically scream that he needs to talk to someone before he completely loses it. Evidentially, that someone is going to have to be me.
I walk down the end of the bar and open the hidden panel to go fish out my stash of the good scotch-even my assistant doesn't know where this one is-and he watches me out of the corner of his eye.
I pour him a generous glass and set it in front of him. He looks at me, eyebrow raised suspiciously. Typical cop behavior.
"On the house. And it's stashed back there cause it's the good stuff-the riffraff that usually skulk around here don't deserve it." He eyes the glass like it's filled with poison, so I go and pour myself a small helping and drink it straight.
"See? Good stuff. Stop looking at it like it's radioactive and drink it already. It's rude to turn a lady down when they buy you a drink, and you seem the mannered type."
He grins sheepishly, although it doesn't reach his eyes, and cautiously takes a sip.
"You're right. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now tell me, handsome William," which earns me a glare from him, "what it is exactly that you do. You're dressed nicely, so you're not some ironworker or some of the other slobs that come in here. You don’t seem like an engineer either, even though they rarely show face in here. And as such, you wouldn't be in a place like this if you were from here, cause you'd know that's the type that hang here if you did."
He hesitates, looking at me and sipping again from the glass, which is emptying fast. I subtly refill it, although he notices and doesn’t protest. He’s a sharp one, probably wouldn’t miss much in any state, inebriated or not. He seems to be considering his answer, not making eye contact with me despite facing my direction.
"I'm in law enforcement."
Cop. Called it. A job like that is gonna make you look like he does, run down and damaged.
"Ah. Tired of the crowd at Mason's?"
He seems perplexed by the mention of the local cop dive, so he's definitely not one of the local PD. Too bad too, cause if they all looked like him… Well. Let's just say that I'd be finding a few ways to break the law and get them called out here.
I keep refilling his glass, hoping that he won't pay attention to the fact that it seems bottomless. The quicker I get him drunk, the quicker I find out how he ended up here. He seems to be registering it slightly, but after only a couple glasses he starts to look a little glazed over. Must have an empty stomach and probably not an alcoholic, surprisingly enough. Maybe both. The Type A workaholic ones like him usually “forget” to eat half the time anyways.
"So, how did you end up here on the West Coast? That accent of yours definitely isn't from anywhere around here."
"I'm looking into a position here. It's time for me to be done with New York." The Chicago in his accent seems to get stronger the more he gets drunk-he must be from there originally.
"New York, huh? The city that never sleeps. Never gotten to go there, though I wish I had."
"Good city. Lots of people, things to do, history… Well, good for everyone else, that is."
Well shit, I may have finally tunneled my way past that shield he was hiding behind. It only took getting out the big guns. This guy’s gonna cost me a pretty penny, but something tells me he’s worth it. The fact that he’s here, in the middle of the day, and nobody’s come in and interrupted tells me that there’s a reason for this. And who am I to argue with direction from upstairs, you know? I’m curious to find out exactly what that was supposed to mean. They always need to talk, even if they don't think they do. Handsome William was no exception.
"Not good for you? How so?"
"Maybe more that I'm no good. Poison. Everyone I love dies."
Uh oh. He's one of those “I'm poison and bad for everyone” self-deprecating types. Usually they're just drama queens, bent on getting the sympathy and attention of anyone who’ll give it. Maybe I was wrong about him… but something about him keeps tugging at me and won’t let me give up on him just yet.
“Really? Something tells me that you’re not a bad guy. How come you say that?”
“All of them… All of them died. And I… I couldn’t save them.” He looks down, leaning onto the bar itself, trying to sink into the wood. “Abernathy… Kyle…. Tompkins… Claire… Danny… Stella…” He mumbles quietly, voice cracking in pain.
Whoa. That’s not just a couple names. He said he’s from New York… Maybe the 9/11 attacks? A lot of people died then, especially police and firemen, but that’s a touchy subject for anyone from New York, even 10 years later. I don’t want to make the man suicidal, but in the state he’s in, he’s obviously got demons that need to be purged. Cautious might just be the way to go with this one.
“I’d say I’m sorry, but that wouldn’t mean much. Did you lose them all in the 9/11 attacks?”
His hand tightens convulsively on the glass, and he stares at his left hand. There’s no ring on there, but by the way he’s staring at it, there once was.
“No. Just Claire… my wife.”
Oh. Damn. Widowed by 9/11. I assume he was a cop back then too, losing his colleagues as well.
“You didn’t remarry? Find someone new? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t have wanted you to stay sad and lonely forever.”
He swallows hard, and his shoulders shake just a bit. I’m chipping away at the dam, I can tell. I suspect the second woman’s name might have to do with this.
“Never remarried… but I did find someone. For a while. Things… They didn’t always go well.”
Someone? Hrm. Interesting choice of words-- maybe the guy. Danny? He could have been his partner. They say that the bond between partners and soldiers surpasses even the strongest marriage. And I’ve known plenty of guys who’ve played for both teams and you never would have known it. Especially if he was a cop too, they wouldn’t want anybody to know.
“What about the others?”
He looks up towards me, eyes vacant, memories obviously dominating his line of sight.
“Kyle and Tompkins were long ago. Good men. Abernathy… well, it took him until Kuwait City to get killed. Stubborn bastard.” He drains the glass, and this time I switch out the glasses and water it down some. He notices, frowns a little, but doesn’t say anything.
Damn. Handsome here’s had quite the life. No wonder he’s teetering on a fine edge-most others would have long since fallen into the abyss. He’s seen some sort of war, the first Iraq War for sure with the mention of Kuwait City. Something else too, whatever events were before that. I never was the best history student. He seems a bit too young for Vietnam, but he fought somewhere. Somewhere where his friends died.
“And the other two?”
“Danny…. His family’s past caught up with him, and he paid the price for their-especially his brother’s-- sins. One day he didn’t call in or show up for work, and that wasn’t like him… They left him trussed up in Central Park, on display, for me. Bold move, even for a Sassone.”
“Sassone. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“The mob family. Sonny ran the Tanglewood boys, but his father and family goes way back into the history of New York crime."
It then hits me why he might seem a little familiar. “You’re the one that took the son down, aren’t you? The one that connected him to that murder. They talked about it on one of the crime shows, how the son was the only one that ever had any charge stick, and even then, it took years of work of this one cop…”
He nods. “One of my… finer moments I guess. The evidence got the conviction though.”
So it was revenge mob style. Eye for an eye. He puts the mob guy in jail, and they kill his… Danny, whoever he was. Partner maybe? Damn. What the show had said about his death was bad enough-they couldn’t actually show images or anything cause it was so brutal. They talked about how the officer that was killed was a great story-from the wrong side of the tracks done good, an upstanding detective. A fairytale story almost.
But I never saw handsome here on there. I definitely would have remembered. You’ve got to be good with faces in my line of work, and he wasn’t one of the people that they did interviews with. I’m not surprised though, ‘cause his behavior so really doesn’t make him seem like he’d be the interview type. Or the type that would take credit for his victories, shrouded in sorrow or not.
He’s gone quiet again, and is staring off into space. He starts to shake like he’s reliving the trauma of this one second by second. It must be the most recent, or maybe the one that hurt the most.
“My partner...” A female partner, gotta be. Her name was last on the list. Guess maybe he could have been hitting the sheets with her too.
He looks down at his hands, palms up, spread wide, seeing something I don’t. A flashback for sure. Blood maybe? “She…” He just freezes, eyes wide open and staring off into space, mumbling quietly again. “Blood. Everywhere. Can’t stop it. Not again. No. Stella. Stella….” He’s turned pale, and his face is drawn with panic. Looks like if he was a weaker man, he’s be puking all over my bar, and I thought for a second there he was gonna yell like the guy does in that famous play. Or prove me wrong and throw up all that good scotch.
His voice strengthens a bit, and his eyes refocus. He starts wringing his hands together. “Uniforms didn’t secure the scene, and the perp took us off guard. I should have… She never liked me to… She just wouldn’t stop bleeding… I couldn’t save her.” He stares down at his hands again, which are now shaking just as bad as his voice.
Damn. No wonder Handsome William is so messed up. They say that partners have a bond that transcends death, and I think he must be living evidence of that. He’s obviously hurt much deeply than anyone can imagine, and what little he’s told me is more than anyone should have to endure. As it is, I suspect that this was just scratching the surface of what he’s been through, since he’s not exactly the most open guy, even with a fair amount in him. I’m impressed he’s still alive and sitting here, not having eaten a bullet long before now. I would have.
He just keeps staring down, like he’s trying to will his hands to stop. He closes his eyes and takes a slightly shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down. I follow his line of sight past his large hands and notice one small drop on the polished surface of the bar. I panic for a second, but realize it’s not blood, it’s clear.
He sits there, breathing haggardly and enveloped within himself, caught up in whatever memories that seem to be on repeat in his head. I leave him be for a while, just watching to make sure he’s not going to lose it on me. He’s survived this long, but alcohol can do strange, strange things. I’ve seen many of them.
Something about him makes me just want to reach out to him and hold him, soothe him gently and tell him it’ll be all right. This stops me in my tracks. It’s never a good idea to get involved with the customers-even for a one-night stand with a man as fine as him-- not to mention I’m really not normally the fixer type. I’ll listen, I’ll give them their poison of choice, and I’ll have an open door as long as there’s money in their pocket. I’m here to be the lifeguard while they drown their lives with their liquid of choice, and for them to look at and not touch. But this one? He’s special. I’d break any and all rules for him in a heartbeat, and honestly couldn’t tell you why. But I don’t think even this drunk and hurt, he’d go for a fling. Doesn’t seem the one night stand type. It’s callous, I know, but all I can think is too bad, ‘cause I suspect he’d be one hell of a good lay.
He crosses his arms on the bartop, and lays his forehead against them, the smooth arch of his back stretching against his shirt as his breathing becomes more normal and composes himself. I have to physically hold myself back from reaching out and running my fingers through his neatly cropped dark hair-he oozes this need for comfort so badly. If he isn’t completely broken-- quite frankly, I think the jury’s out on if he’s irreparable or not-- and there’s something left in that human shell, I suspect he’d make someone a wonderful boyfriend. I say someone cause I can’t quite decide who he was in love with of those last two. Maybe both. You don’t end up like him if you didn’t love who you lost so deeply that you feel that your soul too has died with them, and his eyes are hollow and he stares vacantly like maybe there’s really nothing left.
I take his silence and near breakdown as a hint that the conversation is done, and go about straightening up and cleaning, giving him his space. It’s not too early for the regulars to start filtering in, and I’m surprised that nobody has come in for as long as he’s been here. Maybe one of them up there he loved so much was keeping it quiet for him, knowing he needed this for whatever reason. I suspect they both were.
I hear the rustle of his clothing as he gets up, unfolding himself and reaching over for his suit jacket. He’s not sober yet, but he seems to have his wits about him enough that he should be fine given that it’s still daytime. Nighttime around here would be a different story. He fishes for some money, much more than would cover the one beer he actually ordered.
For the first time, he looks me straight in the eyes, and I swear, straight through me. I couldn’t help but shiver a bit. That’s got to be a taste of the man he must be professionally, and I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of a gun or whatever else with those eyes staring at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear that there was a dim flicker of… something… and maybe his soul isn’t so empty anymore. His eyes are wet and bloodshot, and he’s far from perfect, or fixed, but they don’t hold the complete pit of blackness that he walked in with. He’s a special one, that’s for sure-definitely one for the ‘what ifs’ list, and maybe a fantasy or two.
“Thank you,” he says, with a startling clarity that he’s lacked the whole time that he’s been here, but not without an undertone that tells me that he’s not talking just about the scotch I was feeding him for free. I give him a quiet nod, which he seems to like, probably far better than anything I could have said back.
He shrugs his jacket back on, and walks out pretty confidently considering how not sober he is. Maybe it’s another trick of the eyes and soft soul, but his shoulders look a little less weighted than they did when he walked into here.
I sigh. There goes another one of those ‘what ifs’ out my door. At least there haven’t been a lot of them yet. Part of me hopes that maybe he’ll be back here-if he does, I’d break the no customers rule in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t stand a chance when I poured on the charm. Although, him? Maybe he would. But he’d be a fun challenge, that’s for sure.
Another part of me hopes that he doesn’t come back, cause then I can imagine that he kept going and isn’t back in the headspace he was here. And that maybe, in time, he’d let them go. Move on. Wishful thinking, I know. But I guess even if he’s here on this rock a lot longer, he’ll have a whole lot waiting for him.
The door opens and I look up, hoping just for that second that just maybe he’s turned around and come back. If he did, I’d have asked him out for dinner and called Mikey and Jason in early. Disappointment stabs through me when I see that it’s just Jake, same as always. I flash him a smile and slide a Bud his way, and kick myself for letting my hopes and imagination run away with Handsome William. Ones like him just aren’t made for people like me.
Fin
7/06
Mac’s Name: William Mackenzie Taylor. Hence, “Mac”.
x-posted to psych_30, mac_danny_slash, csi_slash, csi_ny_fic and mac_stella
Rating: PG-13 for implied situations and imagery
Summary: Sometimes you don’t know what you really need.
Spoilers: vague spoilers for “Tanglewood” and “Run Silent, Run Deep”
Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of Jerry Bruckheimer, Alliance Atlantis, CBS, etc.
A/N #1: Inspired by a multitude of things-a song, discussions with stellaluna_, a frustration about a particular type of fic, and a random idea that wouldn’t let go. Credit to stellaluna_ for the beta as always.
A/N #2: Yes, I gave Mac a real name. I have a hard time believing that his real first name is Mac. However, as an abbreviation for something else? No problem. And since I live by stellaluna_’s fanon, he came from money. And in coming from money, had a formal, familial name that he decided to shed, in a sense, by going by Mac. For the curious, I’ll put it at the very end.
That day was the same as any dry and dusty day in Southern California, sun beating down on the pavement, stifling heat, and a view as picturesque as any unbearably hot day in downtown LA could be. Covered in smog. It’s quiet though, early in the day, a good long while before my regulars come down after the shift change from the railyards.
I like to think of myself as a reasonable woman, able to read people and situations pretty well after 10 years of owning this bar and all the trouble that has come with it. A lot of people don't always take me seriously, being a woman and all, but oh well. Part of the job hazards. Besides, that’s what I’ve got Mikey for in the evenings.
The day wasn’t anything unusual until this man-tall, dark and handsome-- walks into my bar. Something about him draws my attention, both aesthetically and in curiosity. He’s definitely not the normal type lug that shuffles through here each day, lean and graceful compared to the boxy oafs that usually take up space on my barstools. He carries himself differently, and I know he's never been here before, cause I'd definitely remember him. In more than one way, if I was lucky.
He looks like a soldier of time-- good posture and confident stride probably his normal gait, but his heavy footfalls seem much too weighted for a person of his age. His shoulders are sunken, pulled down by something in his past-- maybe a few somethings, by the looks of him. He looks like he's been kicked while he's down one too many times, but he’s still here… and in my bar, strangely enough.
He takes an empty seat at the corner of the bar, looking up to meet my eyes briefly as he orders a beer. He won’t look directly at me, but rather he’s taking in his surroundings without actually looking around him. Two types behave like that, cops and criminals. And somehow, I doubt handsome here’s the latter.
He looks up at me again when I set the beer down in front of him, studying me carefully for a second, and I look right back, holding my ground. Definitely a cop. He’s got beautiful light eyes, but they're dark and haunted. Why are all the handsome ones either jerks or messed up beyond repair? I'm a bartender, not Ms. Fix-It. There are days where I wish the world would just figure that out already and send me a nice guy that doesn’t need to be fixed. I figure it’ll be any minute now before he starts telling me the woes of his life, just like they all do.
He surprises me though, a quiet one. Although I guess I shouldn’t be really surprised that he is, since he’s already the biggest anomaly that’s walked through my doors in years. He keeps looking down at the bottle, swirling it around slowly after drinking each sip. Lord knows he looks like he needs to get drunk or spill his guts before he explodes. Quite possibly both. Since it seems he's not going to make my job any easier by doing either, I'll have to do the talking. And the getting him drunk.
"Haven't seen you before around here before."
"Haven't been here long."
He speaks with an Eastern accent of some sort, maybe Chicago or a faded New York accent. Either way, Midwest or East coast, he’s a long way from home sitting here. Probably running away from his past in the sunny land of fake veneer, following the masses of people who come with dreams of something bigger, or just something that's not where they were. He seems like he would be the persevering kind, one that would not just run away if things got too bad, so to put him in the state that he's in-well, I can't imagine.
He's definitely not a talker, that's for sure. By now, most of them are telling me their life stories. Or have at least offered me a drink or tried to flirt. Even the quiet ones will have had a few shots in the time he’s taken to finish half of a beer. His thick fingers peel at the label, and they look rather soft compared to the meaty railmen’s hands. I doubt, however, that he’s been an idle man, and they probably have calluses that you feel rather than see.
I could imagine those fingers doing a few things that I wouldn't mind so much-which stops me in my tracks for a second. Sure, I've been attracted to customers before, but quiet and handsome over here seems to have a draw that I just can't explain. And me and my big mouth don't always have the best control over the internal 'edit button'. So call me crazy or stupid or whatever, but something tells me that I just want to know about this one. Since he wasn’t being real forthcoming, I figured it was my job to wheedle it out of him.
"What's your name handsome?"
When he looks up, it's to stare into space, almost like he's seeing a movie projected for his eyes only on the far wall. He hesitates, fingers curling and pulling at the label spastically as I ask him, and he looks up at me, answering quietly.
"William…"
"William? That seems awful formal. You don't go by something else? You look like a Billy, or even a Mac to me."
Handsome, well, 'William', looks away, but not before I get a glimpse of a searing hurt in those pretty eyes of his. Apparently I've struck a nerve, and maybe he is a Billy or Mac. Mac, I suspect. Billy seems too immature for a man who carries himself like he does.
I feel bad though-part of me is curious as to why he would react in such a way, but it seems it would be kinda cruel to dredge up something that would have cowed him this much. My lucky… not really guess, per se, makes me think more about him. He's not from here, nor does he seem to be comfortable. And some strange woman poking about in his business may upset him even more, but I'm pretty sure he's not the kind that would hit a lady.
"William," he says again, tentatively, like a newborn fawn trying to stand. Probably an alias, guess he wants to be anonymous. Chances are I'm not going to learn his real name. Not like I need that to hear his story, even though it'd be nice.
"All right, 'William', how did a handsome man like you end up in my bar at this time of day, in a place that you obviously are not from? I could see walking in that you're not the LA type, and not too many suits end up in a place like this."
He looks down at his open-collared shirt and slacks and glances over at the jacket almost discarded on the barstool beside him, almost like he's forgotten that he's been wearing them. He looks up at me, with an affronted look on his face like he's insulted that I would even ask such things.
"Miss…"
"Darla."
"Darla… I don't think that's necessary information…." He looks back down at the bar, starting to roll the edge of the bottle again in slow circles like he has been between drinks.
Sigh. He’s a tough one. Getting information out of him isn’t going to be easy, it seems. At least when he's this sober .Why is it I get stuck with the troublesome ones? We’ll just have to work on that. And his bowed shoulders and vacant stare practically scream that he needs to talk to someone before he completely loses it. Evidentially, that someone is going to have to be me.
I walk down the end of the bar and open the hidden panel to go fish out my stash of the good scotch-even my assistant doesn't know where this one is-and he watches me out of the corner of his eye.
I pour him a generous glass and set it in front of him. He looks at me, eyebrow raised suspiciously. Typical cop behavior.
"On the house. And it's stashed back there cause it's the good stuff-the riffraff that usually skulk around here don't deserve it." He eyes the glass like it's filled with poison, so I go and pour myself a small helping and drink it straight.
"See? Good stuff. Stop looking at it like it's radioactive and drink it already. It's rude to turn a lady down when they buy you a drink, and you seem the mannered type."
He grins sheepishly, although it doesn't reach his eyes, and cautiously takes a sip.
"You're right. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now tell me, handsome William," which earns me a glare from him, "what it is exactly that you do. You're dressed nicely, so you're not some ironworker or some of the other slobs that come in here. You don’t seem like an engineer either, even though they rarely show face in here. And as such, you wouldn't be in a place like this if you were from here, cause you'd know that's the type that hang here if you did."
He hesitates, looking at me and sipping again from the glass, which is emptying fast. I subtly refill it, although he notices and doesn’t protest. He’s a sharp one, probably wouldn’t miss much in any state, inebriated or not. He seems to be considering his answer, not making eye contact with me despite facing my direction.
"I'm in law enforcement."
Cop. Called it. A job like that is gonna make you look like he does, run down and damaged.
"Ah. Tired of the crowd at Mason's?"
He seems perplexed by the mention of the local cop dive, so he's definitely not one of the local PD. Too bad too, cause if they all looked like him… Well. Let's just say that I'd be finding a few ways to break the law and get them called out here.
I keep refilling his glass, hoping that he won't pay attention to the fact that it seems bottomless. The quicker I get him drunk, the quicker I find out how he ended up here. He seems to be registering it slightly, but after only a couple glasses he starts to look a little glazed over. Must have an empty stomach and probably not an alcoholic, surprisingly enough. Maybe both. The Type A workaholic ones like him usually “forget” to eat half the time anyways.
"So, how did you end up here on the West Coast? That accent of yours definitely isn't from anywhere around here."
"I'm looking into a position here. It's time for me to be done with New York." The Chicago in his accent seems to get stronger the more he gets drunk-he must be from there originally.
"New York, huh? The city that never sleeps. Never gotten to go there, though I wish I had."
"Good city. Lots of people, things to do, history… Well, good for everyone else, that is."
Well shit, I may have finally tunneled my way past that shield he was hiding behind. It only took getting out the big guns. This guy’s gonna cost me a pretty penny, but something tells me he’s worth it. The fact that he’s here, in the middle of the day, and nobody’s come in and interrupted tells me that there’s a reason for this. And who am I to argue with direction from upstairs, you know? I’m curious to find out exactly what that was supposed to mean. They always need to talk, even if they don't think they do. Handsome William was no exception.
"Not good for you? How so?"
"Maybe more that I'm no good. Poison. Everyone I love dies."
Uh oh. He's one of those “I'm poison and bad for everyone” self-deprecating types. Usually they're just drama queens, bent on getting the sympathy and attention of anyone who’ll give it. Maybe I was wrong about him… but something about him keeps tugging at me and won’t let me give up on him just yet.
“Really? Something tells me that you’re not a bad guy. How come you say that?”
“All of them… All of them died. And I… I couldn’t save them.” He looks down, leaning onto the bar itself, trying to sink into the wood. “Abernathy… Kyle…. Tompkins… Claire… Danny… Stella…” He mumbles quietly, voice cracking in pain.
Whoa. That’s not just a couple names. He said he’s from New York… Maybe the 9/11 attacks? A lot of people died then, especially police and firemen, but that’s a touchy subject for anyone from New York, even 10 years later. I don’t want to make the man suicidal, but in the state he’s in, he’s obviously got demons that need to be purged. Cautious might just be the way to go with this one.
“I’d say I’m sorry, but that wouldn’t mean much. Did you lose them all in the 9/11 attacks?”
His hand tightens convulsively on the glass, and he stares at his left hand. There’s no ring on there, but by the way he’s staring at it, there once was.
“No. Just Claire… my wife.”
Oh. Damn. Widowed by 9/11. I assume he was a cop back then too, losing his colleagues as well.
“You didn’t remarry? Find someone new? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t have wanted you to stay sad and lonely forever.”
He swallows hard, and his shoulders shake just a bit. I’m chipping away at the dam, I can tell. I suspect the second woman’s name might have to do with this.
“Never remarried… but I did find someone. For a while. Things… They didn’t always go well.”
Someone? Hrm. Interesting choice of words-- maybe the guy. Danny? He could have been his partner. They say that the bond between partners and soldiers surpasses even the strongest marriage. And I’ve known plenty of guys who’ve played for both teams and you never would have known it. Especially if he was a cop too, they wouldn’t want anybody to know.
“What about the others?”
He looks up towards me, eyes vacant, memories obviously dominating his line of sight.
“Kyle and Tompkins were long ago. Good men. Abernathy… well, it took him until Kuwait City to get killed. Stubborn bastard.” He drains the glass, and this time I switch out the glasses and water it down some. He notices, frowns a little, but doesn’t say anything.
Damn. Handsome here’s had quite the life. No wonder he’s teetering on a fine edge-most others would have long since fallen into the abyss. He’s seen some sort of war, the first Iraq War for sure with the mention of Kuwait City. Something else too, whatever events were before that. I never was the best history student. He seems a bit too young for Vietnam, but he fought somewhere. Somewhere where his friends died.
“And the other two?”
“Danny…. His family’s past caught up with him, and he paid the price for their-especially his brother’s-- sins. One day he didn’t call in or show up for work, and that wasn’t like him… They left him trussed up in Central Park, on display, for me. Bold move, even for a Sassone.”
“Sassone. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“The mob family. Sonny ran the Tanglewood boys, but his father and family goes way back into the history of New York crime."
It then hits me why he might seem a little familiar. “You’re the one that took the son down, aren’t you? The one that connected him to that murder. They talked about it on one of the crime shows, how the son was the only one that ever had any charge stick, and even then, it took years of work of this one cop…”
He nods. “One of my… finer moments I guess. The evidence got the conviction though.”
So it was revenge mob style. Eye for an eye. He puts the mob guy in jail, and they kill his… Danny, whoever he was. Partner maybe? Damn. What the show had said about his death was bad enough-they couldn’t actually show images or anything cause it was so brutal. They talked about how the officer that was killed was a great story-from the wrong side of the tracks done good, an upstanding detective. A fairytale story almost.
But I never saw handsome here on there. I definitely would have remembered. You’ve got to be good with faces in my line of work, and he wasn’t one of the people that they did interviews with. I’m not surprised though, ‘cause his behavior so really doesn’t make him seem like he’d be the interview type. Or the type that would take credit for his victories, shrouded in sorrow or not.
He’s gone quiet again, and is staring off into space. He starts to shake like he’s reliving the trauma of this one second by second. It must be the most recent, or maybe the one that hurt the most.
“My partner...” A female partner, gotta be. Her name was last on the list. Guess maybe he could have been hitting the sheets with her too.
He looks down at his hands, palms up, spread wide, seeing something I don’t. A flashback for sure. Blood maybe? “She…” He just freezes, eyes wide open and staring off into space, mumbling quietly again. “Blood. Everywhere. Can’t stop it. Not again. No. Stella. Stella….” He’s turned pale, and his face is drawn with panic. Looks like if he was a weaker man, he’s be puking all over my bar, and I thought for a second there he was gonna yell like the guy does in that famous play. Or prove me wrong and throw up all that good scotch.
His voice strengthens a bit, and his eyes refocus. He starts wringing his hands together. “Uniforms didn’t secure the scene, and the perp took us off guard. I should have… She never liked me to… She just wouldn’t stop bleeding… I couldn’t save her.” He stares down at his hands again, which are now shaking just as bad as his voice.
Damn. No wonder Handsome William is so messed up. They say that partners have a bond that transcends death, and I think he must be living evidence of that. He’s obviously hurt much deeply than anyone can imagine, and what little he’s told me is more than anyone should have to endure. As it is, I suspect that this was just scratching the surface of what he’s been through, since he’s not exactly the most open guy, even with a fair amount in him. I’m impressed he’s still alive and sitting here, not having eaten a bullet long before now. I would have.
He just keeps staring down, like he’s trying to will his hands to stop. He closes his eyes and takes a slightly shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down. I follow his line of sight past his large hands and notice one small drop on the polished surface of the bar. I panic for a second, but realize it’s not blood, it’s clear.
He sits there, breathing haggardly and enveloped within himself, caught up in whatever memories that seem to be on repeat in his head. I leave him be for a while, just watching to make sure he’s not going to lose it on me. He’s survived this long, but alcohol can do strange, strange things. I’ve seen many of them.
Something about him makes me just want to reach out to him and hold him, soothe him gently and tell him it’ll be all right. This stops me in my tracks. It’s never a good idea to get involved with the customers-even for a one-night stand with a man as fine as him-- not to mention I’m really not normally the fixer type. I’ll listen, I’ll give them their poison of choice, and I’ll have an open door as long as there’s money in their pocket. I’m here to be the lifeguard while they drown their lives with their liquid of choice, and for them to look at and not touch. But this one? He’s special. I’d break any and all rules for him in a heartbeat, and honestly couldn’t tell you why. But I don’t think even this drunk and hurt, he’d go for a fling. Doesn’t seem the one night stand type. It’s callous, I know, but all I can think is too bad, ‘cause I suspect he’d be one hell of a good lay.
He crosses his arms on the bartop, and lays his forehead against them, the smooth arch of his back stretching against his shirt as his breathing becomes more normal and composes himself. I have to physically hold myself back from reaching out and running my fingers through his neatly cropped dark hair-he oozes this need for comfort so badly. If he isn’t completely broken-- quite frankly, I think the jury’s out on if he’s irreparable or not-- and there’s something left in that human shell, I suspect he’d make someone a wonderful boyfriend. I say someone cause I can’t quite decide who he was in love with of those last two. Maybe both. You don’t end up like him if you didn’t love who you lost so deeply that you feel that your soul too has died with them, and his eyes are hollow and he stares vacantly like maybe there’s really nothing left.
I take his silence and near breakdown as a hint that the conversation is done, and go about straightening up and cleaning, giving him his space. It’s not too early for the regulars to start filtering in, and I’m surprised that nobody has come in for as long as he’s been here. Maybe one of them up there he loved so much was keeping it quiet for him, knowing he needed this for whatever reason. I suspect they both were.
I hear the rustle of his clothing as he gets up, unfolding himself and reaching over for his suit jacket. He’s not sober yet, but he seems to have his wits about him enough that he should be fine given that it’s still daytime. Nighttime around here would be a different story. He fishes for some money, much more than would cover the one beer he actually ordered.
For the first time, he looks me straight in the eyes, and I swear, straight through me. I couldn’t help but shiver a bit. That’s got to be a taste of the man he must be professionally, and I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of a gun or whatever else with those eyes staring at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear that there was a dim flicker of… something… and maybe his soul isn’t so empty anymore. His eyes are wet and bloodshot, and he’s far from perfect, or fixed, but they don’t hold the complete pit of blackness that he walked in with. He’s a special one, that’s for sure-definitely one for the ‘what ifs’ list, and maybe a fantasy or two.
“Thank you,” he says, with a startling clarity that he’s lacked the whole time that he’s been here, but not without an undertone that tells me that he’s not talking just about the scotch I was feeding him for free. I give him a quiet nod, which he seems to like, probably far better than anything I could have said back.
He shrugs his jacket back on, and walks out pretty confidently considering how not sober he is. Maybe it’s another trick of the eyes and soft soul, but his shoulders look a little less weighted than they did when he walked into here.
I sigh. There goes another one of those ‘what ifs’ out my door. At least there haven’t been a lot of them yet. Part of me hopes that maybe he’ll be back here-if he does, I’d break the no customers rule in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t stand a chance when I poured on the charm. Although, him? Maybe he would. But he’d be a fun challenge, that’s for sure.
Another part of me hopes that he doesn’t come back, cause then I can imagine that he kept going and isn’t back in the headspace he was here. And that maybe, in time, he’d let them go. Move on. Wishful thinking, I know. But I guess even if he’s here on this rock a lot longer, he’ll have a whole lot waiting for him.
The door opens and I look up, hoping just for that second that just maybe he’s turned around and come back. If he did, I’d have asked him out for dinner and called Mikey and Jason in early. Disappointment stabs through me when I see that it’s just Jake, same as always. I flash him a smile and slide a Bud his way, and kick myself for letting my hopes and imagination run away with Handsome William. Ones like him just aren’t made for people like me.
Fin
7/06
Mac’s Name: William Mackenzie Taylor. Hence, “Mac”.
x-posted to psych_30, mac_danny_slash, csi_slash, csi_ny_fic and mac_stella