Author's Note: This canon used to be my original fanfiction sandbox, way back in 2005 and 2006. You'll find none of my old stories under this pen name, but one or two of you might feel some faint recognition. I thought about Medical Investigation the other day and felt the urge to give it one more nod, for old time's sake.

The Divorce Monster

Six months, two weeks, two days, and approximately eleven hours (the news had been sent to Natalie via text message from Frank, so the hours could be slightly off) since the divorce between Stephen Connor and the ex-Lisa Connor was finalized (in the eyes of the law; the Catholic Church had drawn the line in the sand quite firmly against it).

Days since the last "incident" - Zero.

It all goes a little something like this:

Some psychologists would argue that of the two, between a males and females, men take divorce much more harshly than women do. It's a failure thing (to provide, to succeed, to hold up to their end of the lofty bargain of forever-and-for-always, etc. etc). It's a blow to the easily bruised ego, a sort of patch on their vest or sleeve that shows everyone that they are capable of failure. Men are weak, this argument would have you believe, driven solely by how they believe the rest of the world sees them and very little by how they perceive themselves (maybe it is the same thing, after all, but who are we to say).

So, naturally, divorce can change a man. In unpredictable ways (including the predictable). It can lead him to drink or to womanize or to work himself into a much earlier grave than the median age of male death in the United States (approximately 75, if you were at all curious). It can do absolutely nothing to their personality at all, except give them a little tic above their right eye when someone adopts the tone of voice that is generally associated with 'nagging'.

It could make them the absolute most fantastical person to be around in public, but reduce them to catatonic states in private.

Who knows really?

Perhaps these invisible scientists are right.

Miles is no psychologist, he's never wanted to be a psychologist, but he's beginning to think that some divorces come in twos:

First, there was Stephen's growing habit of looking at the people nearest him and, instead of seeing what was actually there, there was only his ability to see their potential for failure.

Then there was the drinking. Not so much on the job, but certainly at inopportune moments around it.

Eventually a breakdown of communication had occurred (approximately around the second month, third week, fifth day) between him and the people in positions that required his direct input.

And finally, there was Natalie's resentment.

"Mom and Dad fighting again?" Eva liked brevity and wit, and she liked being the bearer of it, but there was a certain undertone of wariness in the question as she came to sit next to Miles at the conference table.

Just across the hall, between two poorly drawn blinds, a very animated Natalie could be seen scolding a scowling Stephen. What had started out as a good morning had devolved very quickly into a bad afternoon. And by the looks of the intensity of the former's hand gestures, it was the bad (not the good) that was likely to follow them through their next caseload.

Miles, who had been sitting there, staring at the pair with his cheek against him palm (not even trying to hide the fact that he was sitting there, staring at the pair, with his cheek against his palm), blew out a single breath of frustration, "Yeah."

Eva mirrored him and sighed, "Anything we should know about this one, or is it just another day in paradise?"

"Just unhappy," he mused.

The absurdity of the statement made Eva snort, "What you mean to say is that Connor is miserable and Natalie is tired of him taking it out on us. Her. Mostly her, now."

"Think she does it to protect us," Miles had taken to speaking in fragments, like the youngest son who could see more than anyone else but didn't quite know how to explain it to the others.

Eva shrugged and leaned back in her chair, smoothing her hands down a perfectly expensive mauve pencil skirt. Ever the composed older sister, who desperately wished she actually understood what was happening but couldn't. But that didn't mean she didn't pretend to regardless, for hers and the others' sake.

As if on cue (there was a growing pattern in these things), the two watched as Frank wandered down the hall toward their meeting room. He looked okay, composed, with a cardboard coffee cup in one hand and a manilla folder tucked into the crook of his opposite arm. This was a man who went to work because he loved it, but who went home at the end of the day and turned that part of himself off, the part that thought in terms of mold and fungus and ventilation systems.

Functional Frank, who made it to the conference room door, spotted the usual demeanor of its occupants, and let out a long suffering sigh, "How long did it take today?"

"Three hours, nine minutes, twenty-seven seconds. Give or take a minute. Thirty. Thirty-one."

"So close! Almost made it to noon."

Miles looked up, flicked at the lid of his own coffee, and added, "Know where we're going?"

Frank set his belongings on the table but did not sit, "Nowhere fast if those two don't settle this."

"Oh, they'll settle it of course," Eva muttered, "I just hope Natalie gets full custody when they do."

"Oh, don't say that," Miles said sadly.

"You were thinking it," Eva shot back petulantly, letting her superiors' bad mood infect her own. Finally giving up on trying to appear demure, she leaned forward and set her elbows on the edge of the table.

It made her look like a child.

"Right then," dark brown eyes took in the pair of them with pity; Frank could hold his own better than anyone (the oldest son, already independent but still susceptible to the decay) but he knew when it was time to interfere on the behalf of others. Particularly on the behalf of children, "I'll be right back. You two be on your best behavior, and try to look happy when I get back. If any of this is going to work out in our favor, we've got to put in the effort."

He was gone a moment later, already crossing the hall to Connor's office. With a quick knock, he cracked open the door without waiting for a reply, stuck his head through the crack, and said something that made both Natalie and Stephen look up, then out through the opening in the blinds.

Eva and Miles immediately began to have a conversation that did not involve them or include looking in their direction (mostly, it included the weather and how uncharacteristically cold it was for being eighty degrees in June). This continued until the sounds of three pairs of footfalls could be heard approaching the conference room.

Frank and Natalie entered silently, the former nodding at Eva and Miles with approval while the latter gave them a shaky, sad smile. Connor entered last, steely eyed and clenched jaw.

He had finally become the man who didn't have to apologize for anything.