His pen scratches over the smooth white paper as he writes up the last of the report in the dim light of the empty bullpen. He yawns widely, reflecting that he's probably getting too old to be working ridiculously long hours. And he really thought his days of tracking through woods in the dead of night were over. Still, it was worth it. The case is closed and he yawns once more, flexing a crick out of his neck. The elevator to his left pings quietly as its doors open, but he doesn't need to look to know who has joined him. Not lifting his eyes from his report, he softly pushes his chair back a little from his desk and extends his arm. There is a momentary pause, as she climbs out of her shoes before sliding onto his lap with practised ease. She wedges her knees in the gap under the armrest, toes tucked under his leg. He scoots the chair back to the desk, still writing, and kisses the head that has come to rest against his shoulder.
Even in sleep Abby is never still for long, yet it takes him ten minutes to realise she hasn't commenced her customary wriggling. He stops writing for a second, pulling his head back to look at her, then nudges her with the hand that has been resting between her shoulder blades.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
She doesn't reply, but only pushes her head further into his neck in answer. He waits for a moment, to see if she has anything more to add, and when nothing is forthcoming he lowers his hand, and pulls her tighter against him, angling her into his body. His hand comes to rest on the hem of her impossibly short birthday dress, the tips of his fingers just brushing her bare skin. He begins to write again, while his free hand slowly sets a rhythm against her leg. He remembers nights spent pacing the nursery floor, his daughter squirming with colic against his shoulder, his touch on her back the only thing that would quieten her. And now, all those years later, he's unsure of its affect on Abby, but he continues the beat, because it soothes him.
He scribbles his signature at the bottom of the page, tosses the pen down and turns his attention to the huddled figure in his lap. Her eyes are wide open, staring unseeing at nothing, and he can see no light shining from them. Her hands are balled into fists in her lap, and he covers them with his hand, and tries to rub some heat back into them. He has seen her like this on just a few occasions, tight, cold and unlike herself. It took days to undo her then.
He brushes his lips to her hair.
"You wanna go get your Birthday meal now?
She shakes her head silently and he frowns slightly at her refusal to participate in their ritual, albeit twenty-four hours late.
"You sure? I can get takeout?"
She shakes her head again, the smallest of movements.
"Home?" he asks, lips brushing her forehead.
She nods this time, and he is grateful to finally be on the right track.
He slides a hand under her legs and gently sets her on her feet, and raises himself out of the chair to stand beside her. The hand that comes to rest on the back of her neck gently nudges her forward, and without missing a beat, he picks her shoes up as they head out the building.
The rain had fallen suddenly without a moment's warning, cooling the air but falling too fast to let the earth drink its fill, and the parking lot is still swimming as they step out into the open, his car in it's usual spot, despite the reserved space allotted to him under cover, which he has yet to christen.
She automatically steps out, heedless of her lack of footwear, heedless that it has even rained. Her feet splash in the water, and he curses under his breath as he scoops her up in his arms.
He slides her into the seat, tosses her shoes over into the back seat, knowing they are surplus to tonight's requirements, and closes the door. By the time he has rounded the car to his own side and climbed in, she is ready for him, curled up on her seat, her hand on the gears. He is glad to see this small token of normality, and, turning the engine over, he slips an arm around her shoulder, settling her against him before he begins the journey home.
Her breathing has been deep and steady for a while and he thinks she may be asleep, as he brings the car to a stop, but she slides the gear to park at exactly the right moment. She always blurs the edges of his judgment.
Story Notes:
For the B's in my life; bexatious for transatlantic watching, and brightillusions for keeping going with that beautiful smile.
Author's Chapter Notes:
There are some traditions too delicate to break.
Chapter End Notes:
For the B's in my life; bexatious for transatlantic watching, and brightillusions for keeping going with that beautiful smile.