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Her tone was rigid, withdrawn, and completely different from a moment ago.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 out, 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.
"Eric," Her voice pulled him out of his reverie.
"Hmm?”
"Will you tell me about your mom? What she was like?" Watson clearly had other ideas.
The question caught the advisor off guard; he was not sure how to answer her, what to start with, or if he should even start at all. It was close to three in the morning and it was a dangerous floodgate she was asking him to open. When he looked at her, Turner saw hopeful and trusting green eyes staring back at him, a sight he couldn't deny, couldn't say no to.
Turner didn’t want to disappoint her though, didn’t want to reveal to her that, not unlike herself, he lost his mom at a very young age. Different circumstances but the same pain, the same anger, and bitterness towards something he didn’t understand anymore now than he did when he was ten years old.
“You don't have to.”
Turner was quick to reply, "No, I do. I just don't want to shatter your hopes."
Watson raised an eyebrow at him, "What do you mean?"
"Well, I lost my mother at an early age too and even before that we never had a proper relationship."
She looked even more confused now, "Why not?"
Turner exhaled and Watson unconsciously inched closer to him, watching the myriad of emotions flash across his face as he carefully considered his answer, "because my mom had bipolar disorder."
Watson sat up, trying to contain her shock over the revelation.
"Surprised?" Turner asked, the corner of his mouth turned upward, "told ya I would tell you things that aren't in my file."
She narrowed her caring eyes at him, a bit annoyed by how nonchalant his comments were. She quickly deflated, realizing that while she defended herself by shying away from tricky situations, Turner took it all in with a false but thick shield, refusing to show what he really felt.
She was not sure how to melt the cold shell around him most of the time, but when she saw the hint of vulnerability in his eyes she laid back down, wrapped her arms around him and asked him to tell her more.
"There's really not much to tell." Turner admitted, feeling torn.
He felt so good, so comfortable in this bed, it was almost deceiving. He didn’t know how to talk about something so dangerous in such a warm environment.
Watson didn’t say anything to encourage him, just ran her lithe fingers across the plains of his chest, tracing over the unblemished skin, spelling out designs and patterns that sent spindles of pleasure through his entire body. She was soothing him, coaxing the words out of him, without uttering a word herself.
Even though Turner knew this, felt himself lulled somewhat unfairly into revealing everything, the desire to stop hiding from Watson overrode any hesitation.
"She was diagnosed right after I was born. The doctors thought it was post partum depression, but when her mood began to fluctuate, they quickly realized what it was. It wasn't so bad, when she took her medication, but when she didn't; it was...I don't know like she wasn't my mother. She was more like my best friend for the first eight years of my life, because she never raised me, she would spoil me, take me out of school, tell me we're going on some adventure and when we'd get home my father would be about two seconds away from calling the police."
"Where would she take you?"
Turner chuckled before replying. Watson lookd up to find his eyes glazed over in thought, lost in nostalgia, in the past. He had a whimsical smile on his face, but she worried she pushed him too hard, dredging up the past was always a dangerous thing.
"Sometimes the zoo, sometimes an ice cream shop, sometimes we'd just drive for hours and she would tell me stories, fairytales, things like that. She always had some grand idea for the future, like moving to New York and starting her own Cabaret show or becoming an actress in Hollywood. When I was eight, these ideas seemed so out of this world, my mother seemed like the most fascinating person in the world.
I remember hating my father when he would yell at her. He would chastise her for not calling, for not taking her medication, for endangering me. This would inevitably cause tension and eventually she would snap and slip into a depressive episode. Those were the worst. She wouldn't do anything all day, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't shower, she'd just lie on the couch and watch TV. She wouldn't leave the house for days, couldn't keep a job, and had no interest in anything. By the time I was ten years old, I kind of got used to it. She refused anti-depressants. Her last depressive episode lasted for about a year but because she didn't do harm to herself or others, no hospital would admit her. And then one day, I came home from school and she was gone."
His voice trailed off a bit and Watson swallowed hard, waiting for him to continue as he kept his eyes trained on the ceiling. She was not really sure how to react, what to say.
When Turner first joined her team Watson had been curious about his past, but for some reason, perhaps her ethical stance, she never read past what she needed for the Red River Killer case and now that she knew a bit more, the churning in her stomach won't stop. It was almost a bit hard to breathe as she listened to his story. She could not imagine what it must have been like for him as a child. One minute, his mother was his closest friend, his partner in crime, the other she wanted nothing to do with him. At least all her memories of her mother were happy ones, filled with love, not characterized by an emotional roller coaster.
"Where did she go?" she asked quietly, as if she was afraid of the answer and Turner looked down at her. He wanted to tell her how cute she was, how much her evident distress thawed his tough exterior, but he held himself back, knowing if he deviated from the story, he won't be able to finish it.
"We waited for days, weeks. After figuring out that she was sick, the police lost interest in the case, the evidence all pointed to her running away so they gave up after a while. A few months later, my father packed us up and we left town. I'm still firmly convinced that he was looking for her. He carried a worn out picture of my mother in his wallet and every stop we made, he'd always ask around, always make a point of asking the locals if they've seen her. They never did, no one had seen her and eventually I just got tired of following him across the country looking for an apparition, so we split up and I haven't seen or heard from him since."
"How long has it been?"
Watson sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest, facing Turner as he tucked his arm behind his head.
"Long enough," he replied and she didn’t press further.
He let her draw her own conclusions, but her mind was in disarray, "I really don't know what to say, I had no idea."
Turner reached out, tugging on her arm until she sat beside him against the headboard and he rested his head in her lap, "darling, there's no way you would have known, no one knows. The last and only person I ever told was my wife."
The mention of that part of his past froze Watson in place. She suddenly felt cheap, as if she's the other woman’. It made her skin crawl, but she pulled herself together remarkably quickly, almost imperceptibly. She thought Turner didn’t notice, but he did. Of course he noticed everything and when he saw the hurt flash across her face, he regretted his choice of words. He wished he never divulged that detail, shouldn't have been so careless.
He sat up then, taking her hand as he faced her, "Natalie, I'm sorry."
"For what?”
He forgave her for feigning ignorance and guided her eyes to his wedding ring, which left a slight impression on the skin of her shoulder, "For everything I could't give you right now."
She shook her head, her curls tickled his hand, "don't be.”
The softness in his voice, the raw desperation and vulnerability within it resonated deep within her, tugged at her heartstrings even more so than the reminder that she may never have his whole heart, that there was always going to be a part of him she could't touch.
The thought worried her, but she could't ignore that he'd just disclosed a significant aspect of his past and revealed something very personal to her. While another woman would run for the hills, Watson stayed.
In fact, she slid closer until she was straddling him and ran her fingers through Turner's curls and said, "Let me be the judge of that, okay?"
His hands instinctively landed on her hips. When she leaned down to kiss him and whispered a soft thank you in his ear, Turner shut everything else out. Having her so warm and supple in his arms made his senses come alive and made every bad thought melt away.
Instead of wondering why she was still with him, why she still held on when others would have let go long before, Turner savored the moment. He was finally realizing that the elusive feeling of wholeness might not be as unattainable as he originally thought...