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Being suspended sucks, no question. The whole job sucks right now--what happened to Julian, what's going on with the bosses, the whole stinking shitpile of it. My getting suspended (again) instead of promoted is just one more load of crap on the pile.
Being suspended sucks, and the holidays suck, too. With the suspension I could have flown out to see my mom and stepfather in Dallas, but at this late date tickets are expensive and in short supply, and I'm not sure I want to deal with my stepfather right now.
No, I am sure--sure I couldn't deal with his self-righteous bullshit about police departments' inherent corruption. Especially since I'm beginning to think he might be right, the bastard.
So I go over to the nursing home and have "Thanksgiving dinner" at noon in the cafeteria, practically the only one there outside of the staff who's under 70. The more able-bodied patients are off with their families, so it's only the most dependent still stuck here--like my dad, even though he's only 66, drooling from the left side of his face, his right eye bright and glaring the disapproval he can no longer voice.
Yeah, it's a great time.
I could have gone to Julian's, his first Thanksgiving with his new family. But he's barely out of the hospital, and the idea of seeing his still-healing face and dealing with what has got to be one of the weirdest family dynamics ever was less appealing than flying to Dallas, thank you. I don't know why his wife is sticking by him, or why she married him in the first place, although I suppose religion can make people do funny things. He claims to love her, claims he's happy, that they're happy, and who am I to argue with that?
Still, I didn't want to sit down to turkey and mashed potatoes with them.
So I make it through "dinner" at the nursing home, then head back to my apartment, grateful the food was better this year than last. I'm full from the two helpings of pumpkin pie the flirtatious orderly forced on me, hoping he won't be around the next time I visit Dad, because, well, no, not going out with a guy who makes even less than I do who's ten years younger than me. Even I'm not that stupid, although my choices in that area haven't exactly been stellar lately. I still can't believe I came on to Dutch like that--Dutch, of all people. What the fuck was I thinking? The humiliation when he turned me down is something else I'd rather not dwell on.
I come through my door, lock both deadbolts, kick off my shoes, and head into the bedroom, where I change into some sweats and a t-shirt, figuring I'll settle in on the couch and watch some football. I'm still flipping through the channels when there's a knock on my door.
I think about not answering it, but then there's another knock, and the cadence of it is familiar. Which makes me want to hunker down into the couch and ignore it even as I'm getting up, because if it's who I think it is, I am so pissed at him I don't know what I'll do once I see his face.
I open the door. "What the hell are you doing here, Vic?"
"And a Happy Thanksgiving to you, too," he growls, moving past me into the apartment. I let him come in, knowing I couldn't stop him if I tried. Plus, pissed as I am, I can see that he's having a worse holiday than I am, and something in me still feels enough for him that I can't turn him away.
"You want some coffee?" I offer ungraciously.
"Yeah, coffee'd be good," he says. "Beer'd be better."
"Tough shit--I'm out," I lie. If I give him a beer, I'll end up drinking with him, and I know where we'll end up. Hell, we'll probably end up there anyway, but at least by giving him coffee I can pretend a little longer.
He knows I'm lying, but he just says, "Okay, coffee then," and looks around the apartment. I don't know why--it's not as if anything's different from the last time he was here. "Mind if I take a load off?" he asks, gesturing at the couch.
"Go ahead."
He grabs the remote and changes the channel to the Lions/Packers game, and I go into the kitchen and start some coffee.
The time in the kitchen's enough that the buzz on my anger has toned down once I get back to the living room. Good, thing, too, because he's got his shoes off and his stinky feet up on my coffee table. He takes them down as soon as he sees me, flashing one of his I know I'm gonna get away with it grins. Asshole.
"What are you doing here, Vic?" I ask again, handing him his coffee, wondering if he'll tell me. Wondering if I care. Wondering why I ever did. It's not like it takes a shield to figure out Vic Mackey's priorities--he's out for number one, pure and simple. Any perp could tell you that.
His face loses the act, just a little, just enough so I can see he's hurting. "My Thanksgiving festivities ended a little early," he says, "so I figured I'd see if you could use some company."
"You had a fight with Corinne."
He frowns. "You could say that."
"I just did."
"Fuck you too."
"You know you're going to tell me anyway, Vic, so just spill it." Because it's true--he always could talk to me. God knows why I let him spill his guts about his marriage, his kid's struggles with autism, how he hated his mother in law, but he always did. Never talked about the Strike Team, never dished that dirt, but I knew all about his family.
So he tells me--talks to me about how the kids were there, but then Corinne sent them off with their grandmother right after dinner, when Vic was hoping he'd get a little extra visitation time. He gets away with breaking the rules at work, so I guess he figured Corinne would bend the rules for him just like Aceveda. But she wasn't buying what he was selling, not anymore. They got into a shouting match, a nasty one.
"I almost hit her," he says, looking down. "I didn't--fuck, you know I'd never do that--but it was close."
"Jesus, Vic."
"I never thought it'd come to this," he says. "I thought--"
"What, that she'd just take you back?"
"Yeah, I guess I did," he says, smiling ruefully. "Warts and all."
"You put her and the kids at risk, and you cheated on her with that woman from the shelter--and that's just what she knew about."
"I know, Danni, shit--" He stops. "Maybe I should just go."
I sigh and sit down next to him. "No, stay."
"You sure?" he asks.
"Sure," I tell him, tired of keeping my guard up. He puts his arm around me and settles back into watching the game, his hand warm on my shoulder.
At half time I get us some beer.
I know I'll regret it when I wake up in the morning and see him get dressed and leave, but I can't seem to help it. Corinne's got something I don't, I guess, because I know more about her husband's shady side than she could ever guess, but I still let him in my house, on my sofa, and into my bed. Fucker.
THE END