Disclaimer: The usual, they aren't mine, I'm making no money, which naturally means I have no money so please don't sue me.

 

Notes, Timeline, etc.:  Epilog of a sort to Flight.  In a recent discussion on the SA list it was noted - among many other things - that some characters were unexplored or under-explored and oddly enough that inspired me to explore a character that we didn't even get a chance to see.

 

Warning, Rating:  No warning, maybe a couple of semi naughty words.  Rating PG at most.  Very mild stuff here.

 

 

Midnight Musings

By Mele

 

The hall was quite dark; the only illumination coming from a small night light in the bathroom, one of the few remnants of a childhood nearly finished.  Joan Banks silently pushed open the door to her son's bedroom and stood in the dimness studying her only child's sleeping countenance.

 

She hadn't liked the idea of Simon taking Daryl to Peru from the first time he'd mentioned it, but Simon had pushed and Daryl had pulled and Joan had given in against her better judgment.  Well, they could rest assured that she would never give in like that again.  She hadn't learned of what happened in Peru until after it was all over and she was still trying to figure out just who she was madder at: Captain Sandoval, who'd called Jim Ellison, or Jim Ellison, who hadn't called her.  Whatever the case, neither of them had been available to bear the brunt of her wrath, so she unleashed it on Simon.  He'd shown remarkable restraint in keeping silent and made good his escape as soon as she had wound down a little.

 

The rest of the evening had been spent fussing over Daryl, making sure he really hadn't been injured, pushing a nutritious meal at him, letting him talk as much as he needed to about what had happened to him.  And as he spoke Joan finally came to understand that it truly wasn't anyone's fault - well, except for the drug runners, that is. 

 

Still, it had been close - too close - and Joan couldn't help but need reassurance that her much loved son was indeed home and safe.

 

In the imperfect light she could easily see the resemblance between her sleeping son and her absent ex-husband.  Daryl's face still had the softness of youth, but hints of his father's strong features were starting to show.  God knew the boy would be tall; he got that from both sides of the family. 

 

As the peace of the nighttime quiet household soothed her spirit, her thoughts drifted back to another young man, so many years before.  A patrol officer who pulled her boyfriend over as they made their slow way home from a late party.  Dan had been drinking - and quite heavily - so he'd been extra cautious, keeping well below the posted speed limit, unaware that that was one of the hallmarks of an impaired driver.

 

Simon had been properly respectful and coolly calm, but Dan's quicksilver temper had flared and when Joan tried to intervene he'd turned on her, pushing her roughly back, smacking her head on the passenger window in the process.  Within seconds Dan was down and cuffed, and the officer was gently helping Joan out of the car, solicitously asking if she was okay and if he could call someone for her.

 

A ghost of a smile crossed the woman's face as she remembered that night and the young officer with the name badge "S. Banks".  He'd looked only slightly older than Daryl did now, but when he'd called her a week later to ask her out she hadn't hesitated to accept.  Within a year they were married and living in a tiny apartment while she finished her teaching degree and he worked the long hours of a beat officer.

 

They'd had some good times in those years, as well as some tremendous battles of will. But always they'd managed to find a compromise, their love for each other overcame their differences time and again. She'd become a special resources teacher, landing a well paying job in a private school at about the same time Simon rose to the rank of detective and their tiny apartment was abandoned in favor of a tiny house on the outskirts of Cascade.  When Daryl was nine Simon became the captain of the Major Crime division, and Joan threw him a party that lasted until nearly four in the morning.  A year later Joan quit teaching in favor of administrative work, and Simon treated his wife to a weeklong cruise.  The tiny house gave way to a larger home in a safe neighborhood, and Daryl Banks attended a good school.  Each year they celebrated his birthday with an elaborate party, inviting dozens of guests, both adult and children.

 

Yes, there had been some wonderful times. 

 

**So, when did it all change?** she wondered, leaning against the door jamb and letting her mind wander through the years.

 

Was it when he wasn't there when she went into labor with Daryl?  By then she was well acquainted with the fact that her husband's job interfered with his personal life, but to miss the birth of their child?  Even as she fought her way through the labor pains she cursed her husband's career choice.  Then the complication, and a massive hemorrhage sent her into emergency surgery with her mother's voice still ringing in her ears. "Where the hell is that damned husband of hers?  He needs to be here!"

 

She came to in recovery to see Simon sitting by her bedside; his long-fingered, strong hands - hands that could subdue a violent suspect with cool efficiency or fire a gun with uncanny accuracy - cradling their infant son with unspeakable tenderness.  He looked up at her with tears in his eyes and a smile of epic proportions splitting his face.

 

"He's so beautiful," Simon whispered, turning Daryl so Joan could see him easily.  "You did great, Babe."  And in that instant she forgave him for not being there earlier.  His job was what it was, but it was obvious that his family was still the most important thing in the young man's life.

 

So, no, that wasn't it. 

 

Was it when she opened the door late at night to find her husband's captain on the steps, his kindly face grim and care worn in the harsh porch light?  Simon had taken a round to the chest and was even then in surgery, his prognosis guarded at best.  Joan had cradled six-month-old Daryl to her chest as she anxiously paced the waiting room.  Visions of raising their son alone haunted her, and in her distress it didn't even occur to her to call her parents, let alone Simon's.  When the doctor arrived to tell her that the damage was nowhere near as bad as they feared, that her husband would make a full recovery, she nearly swooned in her relief.

 

No, that wasn't it either.

 

Was it when her parents and mentally handicapped brother were all killed by a drunk driver after Thanksgiving dinner at their house?  Joan and Simon were just sinking gratefully into their favorite chairs after a Herculean clean up effort when a knock at their front door heralded the tragic news.  Simon, by that time a detective, was officially on bereavement leave, but was frequently called away by the department to give his assistance on this case or that.  She couldn't help but resent the intrusion into their lives under the circumstances.  Still, he always came back home early, and never once hesitated to offer his comfort and support as Joan worked her way through the labyrinth of grief.  Countless tears fell onto his broad chest as she grieved and raged against the unfairness of their deaths, and in Simon's strong arms she eventually found a measure of comfort and acceptance.

 

So, no, that wasn't it.

 

It wasn't the big things; the traumas and tragedies life occasionally threw at one through the years.  The bad times didn't do the damage, any more than the good times did.

 

No, it was a missed meal here, a forgotten anniversary there.  One too many nights alone with a cranky baby and one too many times flinching when the phone rang while he was on duty.  It was going alone to their son's plays and sports events and graduations.  It was knowing that any plans made for a day off could be changed at the last moment.  It was a gradual accumulation of loneliness and fear and frustration.  It was forgetting to say 'thank you' and refusing to say 'I'm sorry'.  It was nothing and it was everything and they were both helpless in the face of it.  Until it all became too much and in a weirdly civil conversation they agreed to a trial separation, which became a formal separation, which became a divorce and custody agreement.

 

Unexpected tears dimmed her vision as her thoughts returned to the present.  In the quiet solitude of the night she could admit - at least to herself - that which she would never admit in the harsh light of day.

 

She still loved Simon Eugene Banks.

 

It made sense, she supposed.  After all, he still possessed the qualities she had fallen in love with in the first place: strength tempered with gentle kindness, and an extraordinary sense of right and wrong along with an incredible protective streak.  All the same characteristics that had made him a damned fine police officer and exemplary Captain.  But there was more to Simon than just those things, and an unconscious smile crossed her face as she remembered his first, awkward attempts at romance.  He'd been so worried he might inadvertently hurt her that he'd avoided touching her.  It had taken a very straightforward bit of communication from Joan to get him past that. 

 

Then there was his love of music and art; she had some very fond memories of visits to museums and conservatories, seeing her big, strong husband reduced to a misty-eyed puddle of sentimentality by the beauty they found.  It was a facet of his life he jealously guarded from the precinct, just as he'd always tried to shield Joan and Daryl from the harsher realities of his work life.  The smile faded as she remembered those few times that he wasn't able to detach himself from a case, when it was her strength that he called upon to deal with the memories.  The first time a victim died in his arms, and the first time he killed someone in the line of duty.  And the first time he saw a child killed.

 

That was the worst.  Simon had finally come home three hours after his shift ended, looking haunted and suddenly aged.  Joan knew what had happened; she'd called the precinct when he was an hour late and got the story from Simon's captain.  A drug addict, coming down from a high, had stabbed his four-year-old daughter, tossing the dying child toward Simon as he turned to flee.  Simon had reflexively caught the youngster and desperately tried to save the innocent life.  But, as the coroner would later confirm, the child was doomed from the moment the knife severed an artery, and it took five minutes of talking by the paramedics to convince Simon to release the body to them.

 

That night she held him in the dark living room, huddled in the corner of their worn couch, as he sobbed helplessly.  Her own tears fell unnoticed on his broad shoulders as she shared his pain, wondering how he could face going back to a job where something like this could happen.  But the next morning he strapped on his gun and gave Joan and Daryl his customary kiss before heading back to work.  And Joan couldn't remember ever being more proud of his courage and strength; a fact she now regretted never sharing with Simon. 

 

Her gaze returned to Daryl's peaceful face, and she considered again the story he'd told of their 'adventure' in Peru - his term for it, not hers.  Simon had obviously done all he could to safeguard Daryl, while facing probable death himself.  From what their son had reported, Simon was as much responsible for the youth surviving unscathed as Jim and Blair were.  Her face flushed with shame as she realized that she should have been thanking Simon earlier, instead of abusing him.  For all his aura of confidence and control, she alone knew of the fears he harbored, and the events in Peru would have played into all of them.

 

Gently closing the door she wavered a moment; recently learned hostility warring with compassion.  Giving in to the latter, she made her confident way to the phone in the kitchen and dialed the number by memory.  It was picked up on the second ring.

 

"Banks."  The voice was far too alert to belong to someone who'd been sleeping; apparently she wasn't the only one with insomnia this night.

 

"Simon, it's Joan."

 

"Is something the matter with Daryl?"  The near panic in his voice told her she'd been right; Simon was battling his own demons this night.

 

"He's fine.  Sleeping.  No, I just…I just wanted to call and say 'I'm sorry'…I shouldn't have said all that earlier.  It wasn't your fault," she finished, very softly.

 

"No, it was my fault, Joan.  I never should have taken him there," Simon protested.

 

"Yes, you should have.  It was a chance to learn, to explore, to share with his father.  No one could have foreseen the drug runners.  Daryl told me what you did, how you tried to protect him.  Thank you."

 

"You should have seen him Joan," Simon ventured, his voice more confident now.  "He really kept his head, did what he was told, didn't panic.  We've got quite a boy there, you know?"

 

"I know.  I'm thinking he takes after his daddy," she smiled, knowing Simon could hear it in her voice.  "And how are you doing?"

 

"Me?  I'm fine.  A few bruises, a few sore muscles.  Nothing major.  Thank you for asking."  The awkwardness in his voice hurt, but it was still a vast improvement over the anger of the last year or so.

 

"I don't hate you Simon, you should know that.  I'm hoping we can work this out so we're not enemies anymore.  But, for now I just wanted to apologize and make sure you're okay.  It's late, and we both need sleep.  Why don't you call Daryl tomorrow…well, later today, I guess…check in.  He misses you, you know."

 

"Yeah, I suspected as much.  I'll give him a call, maybe take him to lunch?"  There was a murmur of consent from his ex-wife.  "Thanks again for calling, Joan.  I appreciate it.  Good night," he concluded gently, anxious to maintain the fragile peace.

 

"Good night, Simon," she replied, hanging up the phone. 

 

Feeling more at peace than she had in months, she checked the locks then headed toward her bedroom, while across town her ex-husband settled back into his pillows with a contented sigh.  His son was safe, he was home and healthy, and his ex-wife was reverting back to human. 

 

Maybe things would work out okay; perhaps something good would come from this experience.  For the first time in far too long he had hope.

 

The End.