Notes: This story has not been beta read. Please feel free to email me a critique of the story. I have a fairly thick skin so don't worry about offending me.
There is a slash version of the story available on the Adult Story page of my site, but it is not complete.
Simon stared out the window of the office, not really seeing the world that moved on the other side of the glass. He leaned back further in his chair and took off his glasses, tossing them to the desktop. Two years. It was an anniversary of sorts, he guessed. Two years of 'freedom'. Two years on his own, a bachelor once again. Two years of sleeping alone in a cold bed. Two years of working 12 to 16 hour days so he didn't have to go back to that empty cold apartment he was supposed to consider a home. "Well, happy fucking anniversary, Simon Banks," he muttered bitterly to himself. Disgusted with his own self-pity, he sat up, put his glasses back on and began signing the weekly reports in front of him.
Moments later, he heard a tap on his door and Ellison stuck his head in. The tall detective, one of Simon's best friends, had his coat on and held a battered Jags cap in one hand.
"I have that report done, Captain. I'll get Sandburg to sign it and we'll get it to you in the morning, ok?"
"Yeah, sounds good. See you in the morning."
"Nope. Grab your coat, Simon. Dinner's on me."
The captain looked at his friend's determined face and nodded. He had missed lunch, after all. Dinner with a friend beat the hell out of doing paperwork or going home to watch television.
********
The restaurant they finally agreed on was a sports themed bar and grill. They kept the conversation light until the waitress placed their beers in front of them and left with their food orders.
"Simon. What's wrong? " Jim's voice was quiet but firm.
"Who says anything's wrong?" Simon kept his eyes on the monitor a few feet away, preferring the mindless beer ad to the pity he imagined would be in Jim's eyes.
"Simon, you have been moody as hell all week. Today you nearly had Rhonda in tears. You've hardly slept. I know you haven't because I've had a couple of long days this week and you were there when I got to work and still there when I left. You're having trouble concentrating. Something is bugging you." Jim put down his beer. He reached out and placed a hand on Simon's forearm. "I'm your friend. Let me help."
The captain looked down at the pale hand resting on his arm and patted it twice with his own darker hand. "Thanks, Jim. " His voice was so quiet, Jim had to turn up his hearing to catch what he said.
The food came then and the two men concentrated on their food for a while. The silence between them lasted until they had eaten most of the food in front of them and they leaned back. When both of them sighed in contentment at the same time, they looked at each other and chuckled.
"Hey -- why don't we go over to my place? There's a game on tonight."
"Sandburg going to watch the game with us?" Simon tried to make it sound like it really wouldn't matter if the consultant was there or not. But he wan't about to pour out his troubles in front of the grad student. The only friend he had who could understand was sitting in front of him.
"Nah. Probably won't even make it home tonight. He's out with whats-her-name again... that new girl in the morgue?" Jim laid a couple of bills on top of the check and grabbed his coat.
"Pamela Ciolla. Is that why he has been going down there with you so often? I wondered why he was suddenly going down there with you." They laughed together at the observer's philandering ways as they walked to their cars.
Once at the loft, Jim grabbed each of them a beer while Simon turned on the game. They settled comfortably on the couch and watched the game in silence.
"Two years, Jim." Simon's gruff voice broke the quiet suddenly.
"Oh?"
"Since my divorce was final. Two years and what do I have to show for it? I have a son who will barely speak to me most of the time--when I get to see him at all. I have an apartment where I live alone, eat alone, watch TV alone..." his voice went down to a whisper. "... sleep alone."
Jim's only answer was to shift on the couch so that he was facing Simon and, in doing so, moved closer to him.
"God, Jim! How did you stand it? Before Blair moved in, how did you deal with being alone all the fucking time?" The big man took in a deep breath that sounded almost like a sob.
"I... didn't. I did the same thing you're doing. Worked until I couldn't keep my eyes open, went to bed. Got up and did it all again."
"Hmmm. Sounds familiar, doesn't it."
"Yeah, well you remember how much fun I was to be around then, right?" Sarcasm dripped from Jim's voice.
"God, have I been that bad?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Simon, if living with Blair has taught me anything it's that we need to lean on our friends. That's why they are there."
"So I've heard."
Jim placed a hand on Simon's leg and gave a gentle squeeze. "I'm here, Simon. I've been where you are. Lean on me."
Simon sat very still for a few moments, then covered Jim's hand with his own, gripping it tightly. Tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes and he choked back a sob. He felt Jim's hand tighten on his fingers and his defences crumpled under the onslaught of the sympathy he felt from his friend.
Huge, wracking sobs tore from his lungs and he suddenly felt like the child he had been -- six years old and lost at the death of his mother. Bereft and abandoned, until he felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders and his face pressed into a solid chest. He felt safe and comforted and suddenly free to unload the horrible burden of grief and guilt, anger and anguish he had carried since Joan had made her feelings clear. The tall, strong, gruff man wailed his pain into the shoulder of a friend and was comforted.
Eventually, the loft became quieter and the two men sat still on the couch, both with tear-streaked faces, one supporting the other as he slipped into an exhausted slumber.
*end*