by Cabe Sparrow
He knew if she ever broached the subject in a non-work related manner, he would mostly likely snap at her, become defensive and cold and his less than honest thoughts. He sometimes wanted her to confront him, force him to own up to things that he had trouble letting go, but he knew she never will.
Despite what she may think of herself, Natalie was an incredibly patient, durable soul who spent most of her life guiding other people into realizing their potential, and he thought he would be no exception. Another thing he learned over the time he spent getting to know Natalie Watson outside work was that she was not as resilient in her own pain as she was in her actions towards others.
Turner thought about how his own nightmares transformed into something else, something far more sinister, a blinding thirst for vengeance, retribution that quickly clouded all his thoughts and feelings, those of grief, anger, and pain.
For Watson, her nightmares have never and will never turn into something as wicked, so he was terrified that the painful images that plagued her subconscious would never subside, would never set her free.
The first time it happened, he pretended to be asleep.
He wasn't sure why the guise was necessary, but with the way her eyes immediately shifted to make sure he hadn't woken up, Turner realized she was still not ready to let him see that part of her. Whatever was hurting her was too private, the memory too raw and painful, and if there was anything he could relate to, it was that.
It was the shame and fear that he wouldn’t be understood, that his psyche was too damaged and his soul too frayed to be accepted by someone. As much as his heart aches from suspicion that Watson might feel a fraction of what he did, he gave her the space she needed, the privacy that might give her some measure of power, promising to intevene only when he felt it natural to do so.
Thankfully, the episodes were few and far in between, and for the most part, he spent his nights in and out of sleep, always comforted by the presence of the petite woman in his arms, who had somehow begun to lessen the weight on his heart.
He didn’t want to admit it, unable to cope with the ramifications of the realization, but every night that he held, or cooked her dinner and listened as she berated him for using too much wine in his sauces, Turner found himself closer and closer to admitting that he really was falling in love again.
Which is why one night it became unbearable to feign sleep when her small body spasmed beside his and she woke up with a jolt, chest heaving as she took deep breaths to steady her heart. He didn’t even realize he was touching her until she turned around and even in the darkness of her bedroom he could see the look of shock and shame cross her features.
He didn’t want to be accusatory, didn’t want to show her he was hurt by her desire to keep this from him, so he gently coaxed her back into his arms. Watson laid down wordlessly, too exhausted to fight him as Turner wrapped his arms around her, pulling the covers over them both.
They lie in silence for a long time, his hand tracing over the pulse point on her wrist, until the frantic beat subsided and her body relaxed against him, no longer frigid and cold.
"Tell me about them," he finally whispered against her neck, his warm breath soothing her.
"I don't want to," Watson mumbled with a hint of defiance in her tone, burying her head in the pillow. Turner smiled, he could't help it. She always told him how stubborn he was, but in truth, he was malleable to her words, far more so than she wass to his.
“Why not?”
Watson let out a sigh and twisted in his arms, laying on her back and staring at him. He was laying on his side, propped up on an elbow, the comforter fell to his waist and he had the most concentrated look in his eye. She got sidetracked without trying and pondered once again how this even happened. How he went from being the annoying, slightly damaged advisor that threatened her team's credibility to the man who shared her bed, cooked her dinner, and watched reruns of Seinfeld with her.
Her hand instinctively reached out to caress his cheek and he responded to her touch like a kitten, rubbing his stubble against her palm, smiling softly at her as he leaned down to brush his lips over her forehead.
"I'll make you a deal," Turner decided, sliding down until he was eye level to her, "If you tell me, I'll tell you everything that you could't find in my case file." Her eyes grew wide; she was surprised, taken aback by his suggestion.
"Eric, you don't have-…"
"I know I don't have to." He pressed his fingers to her lips, "but I want to. I've been wanting to for a while. You've told me a lot about your family, your past and I haven't been as open. I want you to know."
There was conviction in his voice, sincerity, and Watson knew it took a lot out of him.
Turner wasn't just a private person; he was also not quite over what happened. She knew little about his upbringing, but was convinced that he believed his rearing shaped him to be prone to arrogance and made him thirst for fame, which ultimately rendered terrible consequences and she knew that still weighed hevy on his heart. For him to let her in, to finally be ready to tell her everything, it meant something. Maybe it meant absolutely everything and she threaded her fingers through his curls, pushed his body on top of hers, and fused their mouths together in a slow, languid kiss.
"You think you can distract me?" Turner nuzzled her neck after he pulled away, biting slightly on her earlobe, and earning a squeal from her.
"Not at all," Watson said innocently, but her foot rubbed his calf underneath the covers, contradicting the purity in her expression.
They looked at each other for a moment, playful smiles and dazed looks, but when he reached out to swipe the bangs from her face and felt the cold moisture on her forehead, Turner remembered why they woke up and frowned, his eyes somber as he traced a finger across her collarbone, hooking it into the strap of her camisole.
"I’m serious, Natalie.”
"I know."
Her voice was quiet, subdued, there was a hint of insecurity in it that he was frankly not used to. He had only heard it once before. It sent an unpleasant feeling of guilt to his chest and he moved her until her head was resting on his shoulder.
Watson buried her nose in his chest, letting his scent and heat and everything about him calm her mind for a moment. She's not afraid of telling him everything, she knows there's always been trust between them, but right now all she wanted was his presence beside her. She wanted his quiet strength and confidence in her to reaffirm her belief that despite any ghosts that she battles alone in her dreams, she won't have to fight them by herself when she's awake.
"I want to tell you everything, just not tonight okay?" she looked up, her green eyes still as bright and shining even when she's pleading with him, "just hold me."
"Okay," He nodded.
Their bodies found each other instinctively, limbs intertwined naturally, as if they were meant to lay like this and be connected in an intimate way. Turner felt her breathing even out and thought Watson had fallen asleep, so he ran his fingers through her hair, trailed his hand up and down her spine, indulging in the softness of her skin and the gentle rise of her chest.
Ironically, though he had not been plagued by nightmares in quite some time, Turner knew he wouldn't get much sleep tonight. His heart may be at peace, but his mind was in turmoil. He was used to being the closed off one, the one who carried an air of mystery around him, the one who needed the coaxing, not the one who pushed. Perhaps it was a good lesson for him. Perhaps, it was good that she humbled him, building his patience and motivating him to open up to her first.
Just as he closed his eyes, almost okay with Watson's reluctance to talk, her sleepy voice broke through the silence, "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you for wanting to open up to me; I know it must be hard."
He realized that although he may never again be a complete mystery to the woman in his arms, he was willing to sacrifice that if she promised not to shut him out. He placed a soft: kiss on her cheek and somehow slowly the bounds of insomnia les
sened just enough for him to fall asleep, holding Watson closely, subconsciously hoping to chase away both her demons and his...
Chapter 12
Another case was closed, yet the mood in the bullpen was decidedly somber. The two extra large post-case pizzas sat untouched in the middle of the conference table and even Barnes didn’t seem interested in eating.
Watson looked at each member of her team in turn, surveying their equally forlorn expressions and wracking her brain for something to say. Her throat was dry and there were no coherent thoughts forming. She wanted to be encouraging, rise to the occasion, reassure the hardworking people around her that there was something to be learned from this, but there wasn't and she knew it. She kept her mouth shut, staring at an unseen spot on the table surface.
Moments later, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and a cup of tea materialized in front of her. She looked up to find Turner smiling at her, a flash of pure concern in his blue eyes,
"I know you're partial to caffeine, but chamomile does wonders for nerves."
For a moment, it was like they were the only two people in the room and she wanted to just lean into his touch, take comfort in him, but all she gave him was a small discreet smile and turned back to her team. Cranston seemed to be the only one who noticed the exchange between them, but didn’t say anything.
Part of it, Watson knew, had to do with respect and the other was probably related to something far more delicate. Either way, the women exchanged pleasant and sad smiles when Grace announced her departure and Watson ignored that Barnes made a weak excuse and left shortly after.
"And then there were three," Turner announced in an attempt to lighten up the mood, but it didn't work.
There was a gloom over the trio and the ensuing silence didn’t do much to alleviate it. "Natalie, I'm going to go now. Do you need anything else?"
Watson was slightly startled by Ng's inquiry, but gave him a warm smile right away, shaking her head no.
"Okay, good night then guys."
The analyst threw his blazer on and walked out of the office, eager to leave, possibly clear his mind after the day they had. Watson didn’t blame him.
As soon as the elevator clinked in the distance, she made a move to get up, "I have paperwork to do."
Her tone was rigid, withdrawn, and completely different from a moment ago. A hand on her arm stopped her, "It could wait until tomorrow, or Monday even."
His eyes bored into her, communicating everything he didn’t say, and she sighed, too exhausted to argue. Yes, paperwork could wait, but it was beyond just that. She was not used to feeling this vulnerable, being left without any answers. She didn’t know how Turner fought it, but he kept up a very brave front. This case had to have hit a nerve with him, but he didn’t show it.
"Do you need anything from your office?" Turner asked softly, his hand stroking her arm, fingers interlacing as they sat facing each other.
Watson shook her head, "no, let's just go."
A welcomed shiver ran down her spine when she heard him say behind her, "Yeah, let's go home."
She kissed him as soon as they make it into her apartment. It was dark and cold.
She hadn't spent the night there in a few days, only stopping by for a change of clothes and a shower; so she clutched to him, soaking up his heat, slid her small hands somewhat frantically inside his jacket, underneath his vest.
His moments were more fluid, controlled, focused, determined to be her shield, to withstand and absorb any discomfort or anxiety she might feel. He responded to her kisses, cupping her soft cheek in his palm, the other in her hair, keeping her as close as possible while she wrestled with the buttons on his vest. He felt her tension, sensed it in her movements, but he wouldn't begrudge her this, wouldn't stop to judge or analyze her actions, because that would be hypocritical.
He was no one to critique others about grief or guilt or seeking comfort. He took her hand, guided her upstairs, undressed her piece by piece, and didn’t realize how much he missed the feel of her beneath him until they slid under the covers and he laid kisses everywhere.
Watson wrapped her entire body around him, eyes shut, begging to forget, trying to block out all the frightful images, the dead bodies, hazard of the job. She was usually good at containing her emotions, excellent at separating her work life from her home life, but sometimes the wire was stretched too thin and the spring snapped, leaving her bare, vulnerable, not knowing how to deal.
She looked for solace in the only stable thing in her life as of late, holding onto Turner, indulging in the way his strong, welcoming frame protected her, held her down. Watson relinquished all control and the moment their eyes met in the darkness, the blatant conviction in her gaze, her trust in him spurned Turner on until they lay spent side by side, soft breaths mingling in the air, his lips buried in her hair as he held her to him.
Turner didn't dare close his eyes or give into exhaustion, because he felt the tension, felt the words on the tip of her tongue, before Watson even said anything. "I never thought my father's alcoholism was an illness."
She didn’t wait for a response, knowing there was nothing much Turner could say to that and when she turned to face him, laying on her side, her eyes watched him as he watched her. She understood that he was aware that this was just the tip of the iceberg. That the phrase opened the door to everything she'd been feeling but was too afraid to verbalize, everything she wanted to tell him for so long but couldn't.
It was ironic to her that circumstances from her job would be her main impetus for opening up, but she didn’t dwell on it for too long, because Watson had stopped trying to rationalize her dedication to work and a lack of personal life a while ago.
"Not once, not even when he was dying of liver cirrhosis. I still thought it was a choice. I was always bitter, always angry at him for being so weak. I was blind. I didn't realize what kind of a sickness it is. It consumes people, makes them do terrible things."
Her face was devoid of emotion, but Turner didn’t need her expression to know how deep her wound went. There was a very significant distinction between their pasts.
Watson did nothing to deserve what happened to her parents, but he got what was coming to him. So while he's haunted by his actions, by the horrible consequences he rendered, the woman he's come to care for deeply is haunted by unjustified loss, by a feeling of helplessness in her adolescence that she tried to work against by trying to control every aspect of her life. Sometimes, Turner realized, that self-deprecation and doubt sprouted again. Even though he knew she needed to let this all out, he interrupted her with a gentle touch to her cheek.
"Sweetheart, your father, no matter how dependent he was on alcohol, could never be capable of doing what that woman did."
"You don't know that. He had enough sense to beat his own children, how do you know he wouldn't set an orphanage on fire?" Her reply was curt and she almost shied away from him, a natural defense mechanism and Turner tried not to take it personally.
"Lisa Belloq did that because she was a paranoid schizophrenic with an alcohol problem, and her hallucinations made her believe that an innocent group of children were after her. There's a difference."
She looked at him for a moment and the realization in her eyes made his heart ache, her resigned smile gnawed at him.
"It's sad that I still try to justify his behavior. It's like everycase that's remotely similar or reminds me of him forces all these memories out and even if it makes me angry or bitter, I still always try to figure out why he did it, why he let himself deteriorate. My brother's aren't like that, you know. Maybe it's because he stopped being their hero, their dad the second he laid his finger on them, but I don't know why I'm not like that, why I think the way I do."
Her voice was a hushed whisper and in the pale moonlight her green eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
"There's no shame in wishing for the best in people. Maybe if we had more of that in this world, people would act differently," Turner reached o
ut, tucking a curled strand of hair behind her ear, unable to resist running his finger across her collarbone. She looked beautiful to him, so simple and bare, not hiding behind her work armor, just letting herself be.
It reminded him of the night he watched her soak up the rainstorm. It was a breathtaking sight, not very different from the present. "Maybe," Watson agreed, "but then we'd be out of a job."
She chuckled softly and Turner joined in, the cadence of her low laughter making him grin, a part of him more relaxed now that her smile is more genuine. They laid in silence for a while, enjoying each other's company and the peace that had eluded them since they received the call that a local orphanage burned down six days ago.
The investigation was excruciating not only because the victims were children but also because the evidence initially led nowhere. The team stuck together though, working diligently, and everyone contributed what they could. Eventually their suspect pool was narrowed down and they were able to link one of the janitorial staff to the crime.
They only discovered Belloq's condition when she was brought in for questioning and Turner instantly had no doubt she did it. Still, that left no resolution and brought no justice to the children noone wanted in the first place. Going over each orphan's records, searching for links, and isolating potential suspects put such a strain on their morale that Turner wasn't surprised that even the strongest, most put together member of their team had a hard time with this case.
It also made Turner realize, not for the first time, that there were evils beyond Red River Killer in this world, and that sometimes the person was not to blame. It was a lesson Turner learned as a child, something he still carried with him, but never openly discussed. For now he was content to focus on someone else and channel his energy not into his revenge or his personal demons, but Watson's.
