Title: Moving Still
Author: Skylarcat
Classification: Flynn and Vega. Will be posted in parts.
Rating: Impossibly sad.
Feedback: Please.
Summary: Okay, so I feel I have to explain this story. I'm in the middle of writing a stand alone, chapter story, but in trying to get each chapter right, I find it's taking longer than expected. After watching the episode 'Pitfall' a One-Shot came to me. I got half way through it when after a discussion with a friend regarding the season finale, my mind wondered to a dark place and this came worth. It's in parts, better format that way. I know many will not read, since it will be painful, trust me, it was painful to write, but I wanted to share it, sort of like a page of a diary, personal, but still needing someone else to read and share the experience with you. I hope a few can respect its depth. Part of me is angry for even thinking it up...
Note: Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

XXX

Fall

She sits alone, in the dark, in her car, and watches the rain as it falls against the windshield. It streaks down the pane and puddles at the base of her hood. She thinks about reaching out and tracing the drops. She decides she will need her umbrella, but she doesn't reach for it. Instead, she sits still, afraid to move. Her heart pounds so hard against her chest, so hard that she swears it will explode. Each bang rings in her ears; the sound like the firing of a gun.

Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day. The melody of the childhood song hums from her lips. She concentrates on each word, and pretends to not know how insane she looks, sitting in her car, in the pouring rain, while her warm house beckons her only a few yards away. She watches the small porch light flicker, its glow casting shadows along the dark ground.

One.. two...three, she begins to count silently to herself while her car engine hums softly. "I hate this car, how's that for honesty?" His voice plays in her head; the sudden memory washing forth, like a wave crashing against the shore. She bits her lip hard, so hard that she can taste blood. Do not think, do not think. She warns herself, but it's too late; her minds already there; the memories spilling forth like the bottle of expensive perfume he had bought her on her last birthday.

Vega. His crooked smile. Vega. His dark eyes. Vega. His soulful laugh. The way he pressed his mouth against her ear the first time he told her that he loved her. The thought sits heavily on her, like a stack of bricks, and she feels like she is going to break under the weight of it all.

She closes her eyes, warring away the tears, but they fall anyway. Fall like the rain outside. And before she knows it, she is slamming her hands against the steering wheel. She continues to slam them, over and over, till she can feel her hands start to burn. She stops and grips the wheel tightly and thinks how easy it is for him to not feel anything at all, to be just completely gone, to not be here to see her falling apart. He is gone, and she is left, feeling like she might explode. She shoves a fist into her mouth and screams.

XXX

She returns to work earlier then the time she's allowed. His desk stands still, mostly empty now; his chair vacant. She returns her attention to her own desk and takes a sit. She picks up a pencil and begins to tap it against the hard surface. She glances around and notices the stares of several coworkers. Their eyes appear sad and she has to look away. Their scrutiny burns her like the striking of a match. She likes to think of herself as visibly wounded, wearing the hurt like a badge of honor; not wanting to forget; to forget him; to forget what he meant to her.

Two detectives chat by the water cooler. One male with brown hair. One female with yellow hair. They chat carelessly; the female's hand rests leisurely along the male's shoulder. She thinks of how easily it could have been her and Vega.

She doesn't realize how hard she is gripping her pencil, doesn't realize her knuckles have turned a paler shade, doesn't realize any of it until the yellow writing instrument snaps in two.

She scoots her chair back, ignoring the sound of metal scraping against linoleum. Several of her coworkers look in her direction, then quickly turn away, avoiding any eye contact. She pulls out his chair and takes a sit, running her hands along the cold metal surface of his desk. It feels cold and void of any life. She pulls open a drawer and takes her time sorting through the few remaining items. A couple of folded sheets of paper. Several pens. Other small objects. She gathers the contents and lays them on top of the desk. Her hands rest still next to the items, afraid her slightest touch would burn them, leaving only ashes, and taking away another piece of him within their embers.

Finally, she gathers enough courage and unfolds one of the crinkled pieces of paper. She lays it flat and smooth's a hand over the creases. It's a to-do list.
-Make copies of a file.
-Buy Milk.
-Pick up Angie's gift.

Her breath catches in her throat. She needs to scream. She needs to hit something, anything. And for a moment, she thinks she will do just that. She glances around the precinct. Detectives discuss cases, talk on phones, and appear completely normal; as though this was any other day, as though she didn't sit a few inches away, her heart breaking in half.

She folds her arms and lays her head down, closing her eyes, all the movement around her stills, and she is invisible. Maybe when she opens her eyes he will be there, she thinks, but doesn't dare do it, instead she drifts asleep.

XXX

That night she lays in bed and stares at his side. She pretends he is there next to her. They are chatting like any other night.
"How was your first day back without me?" He asks.
She doesn't want to talk about it. To think about how it feels to be without him. So she doesn't answer.
"Surely, you got a case. I bet you're already working on a motive as we speak." His voice is calm and sounds as though he's merely on vacation, instead of being gone.
"It's not the same without you," she finally says.
He thinks for a moment. "Not the same, just different, you can get use to different." And then he's gone and she's alone. She traces her hand along the empty pillow, the fabric soft under her fingers. She thinks, maybe she will buy new sheets.

Her eyes move to her bedroom wall, where headlights shine occasionally, and she begins to count each time a car passes. She counts until she can't count anymore. Then she draws her legs up to chest and buries her face into his pillow and cries herself into a slumber.