Title:  When You Needed Me Most
Author: Beautiful Cynic
Email: beautiful_cynic@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Classification: AU, V/A, Post-911 Fic (vague references), implied DSR
Summary:  How could I let him take all the blame, when it was never
anyone's fault but my own?
Disclaimer:  Not Mine:  John Doggett, Dana Scully.  Mine: Liz. 
Everyone's Heroes: the NYPD and FDNY who gave up their lives saving
others. Rest in peace.  This is very peripheral disasterfic.  I've been
having massive writer's block this last month, and I hope this will 
break through it before I explode.
Thanks to Mare for beta-ing :)



I choose to stand at the back of the church.  I'm not a cop's wife
anymore, I don't belong any closer.  I don't know what to say to these
women, the ones in the front row.  I know them all, some are ...were...
close friends, but I can't think of the right words.  

Guilt tears at me.  Every single one of those ladies rushed to my side
when my son was murdered.  They held me while I cried, got angry along
with me when I raged at the world and evil and God in heaven for taking 
my boy from me.  Why can't I be there for them like they were for me?

Because I'm not one of them anymore.  When I left John, I essentially 
left them, too.  Sure, we all attempted to keep in touch, pretended that
we 
all still had things in common beyond the calling our husbands had 
answered. And it broke my heart to watch their children run and play while
my Luke rotted away beneath the cold, hard ground.

But, even that couldn't keep me away today, knowing full well that had
John never left the NYPD, it would likely be me up there.  This would 
have been the kind of thing he'd have responded to immediately, and I'd
have expected nothing less from the man I married.

I don't hear a word any of the speakers say, lost in my own little 
world, remembering a time of personal tragedy, when I should have embraced
my closest loved one.  Instead, I pushed him away.  I let him blame 
himself for Luke's death, let him believe that I blamed him, when in
reality, I never could, never did blame him.  Because it was my fault.  I
was the one running late that morning.  I was the one who kissed my boy
and sent him out the door with a half-hearted apology because he had to
walk that day.

"But mom,it's cooolllld outside!  You don't want me to catch the flu, 
do ya?"  That gap toothed grin topped by sparkling blue eyes flashed in my
mind and the tears I was trying to contain spilled over my lids.

The woman next to me pats my arm with a kind, grandmotherly grin and 
hands me a tissue.  "It's good to cry, sweetheart," she says, all the
wisdom of her years in the simple words.  I thank her and wipe my eyes,
again retreating into my personal pity party.

I know I'm a horrible person for the way I treated John after Luke died. 
I yelled at him for not being the one to tell me, even though I knew he
had locked himself in the shooting range, emptying clip after clip into
the paper target, letting his initial anger and grief out in the only 
way he could that wouldn't hurt anyone else.  I yelled at him for always
leaving so early, never being a part of our morning routine.  As if it
would have made a difference which one of us bid Luke farewell last 
that day.  And I knew damn good and well, had John been home that morning,

when it was time for Luke to go to school, he'd have driven him.  He never
would have let him walk.

I'm the one who let him walk.

It's my fault.

Always has been.

These are separate thoughts.  Each occuring independently, to punish me
that much more.  More thoughts hit me...how I destroyed what was left 
of my marriage...and how I still loved John, even after all the years that
have passed since the divorce.

It took a familiar voice to jar me out of my thoughts.  I look up and 
see the mayor is speaking now.  I strain to hear his words.  I want to
take
comfort in his leadership, but the demons of the past drag me down once
more.

God, it's been years since I've beaten myself up like this!  What brought
this on?  Why now?  But I know the answer to those questions.  The 
women in the front row.  It could be me up there.  But it isn't.

The cycle begins again.

Blessedly, the service ends before much longer and we're released out 
into the dreary sunshine, filing past the widows in a grim receiving line.
 
As the people leave the church, I fall out of line, wander the vestibule,
looking at everything and nothing in particular, trying to put off the
inevitable hugs and tears.

Finally, after what seems like an age, the line thins and I decide to 
just suck up and do it, get it over with, go home and wallow.  I exit the
church through the ornate double doors and freeze in my tracks, as if
seeing a ghost.

Of course, it makes sense that he'd be here.  I'm surprised I didn't 
think of that possibility sooner.

"Lizzy?"  

Dammit...I've been spotted.  Who is she?  Oh yeah, Karen ...Something. 
Can't remember her last name.  No matter.

"Oh, Karen...I'm so sorry."  I hug her, purposely not looking to my 
right.  But I can feel the blue eyes turn towards me, watching me.  I pull
back from the hug, exchanging condolences and small talk with the woman. 
Finally, I get the courage up, and I turn to my right.

"Hello, John."

I smile at him when he turns to face me, the smile fading fast when I 
can see he's not alone.  Instantly, jealousy fills me, and I can't help
but
wonder who she is.  Thank God my brain kicked in and stopped me from
actually asking that question.

He nods.  "Liz."  

That's all he says to me.  All the years we were together and that's 
the greeting I get.  After a beat, I look at the petite redhead next to 
him, and I notice she's holding his hand lightly.  Just like I used to.

"Hello," I say, reaching out a hand.  I use my left hand so she has to
respond with her right, and in the process, has to drop her grip on 
John's hand.  "I'm Liz Doggett."

She doesn't even flinch as she takes my hand to shake it, or as she 
hears my name.  Instead, she smiles cordially.  "Dana Scully.  It's nice
to 
meet you."

"Likewise," I reply, letting go of her hand, which returns to his
casually, in no great hurry.  Oh, there are questions I'm dying to ask. 
Who are you? What are you doing with *my* hus-, I mean, my ex-husband?

"It was a nice service," he says, breaking the awkward silence.  

I nod, too busy noticing the way his thumb is gently stroking the back 
of her hand.  He is drawing his comfort from this stranger, not from me.  
I have to remind myself, she's obviously not a stranger to him, but that
doesn't make this less disturbing for me.

[Too bad...you let him go...hell you practically shoved him out the 
door with the way you treated him.]

"John, we should go...it's a long drive back," I hear her say quietly.  
I want to ask her just where it is they've got such a long drive back to,
but I don't.  The rational side of my brain has finally decided to join
the party, reminding me that I hold no claim over him.  I wasn't there
when he needed me then, and I don't get to be there for him now.  
That's just how it worked.

My mouth suddenly works again.  "You look well."

He tilts his head slightly, nodding.  "You, too."  Then down to her. 
"Yeah, you're right."

"Again, it was nice to meet you," the woman says politely.  I'm 
encouraged when she drops John's hand.  

"You take care," he said, patting me on the shoulder.  

In unison, the pair turns, each towards the other, as if this is a move
they've practiced often.  His arm goes around her, so naturally that I
know it's not something he's doing to make me jealous.  He wouldn't do
something like that anyway, it's not his style.

I watch them walk away, until they are just small blurs down the block.  
A crisp breeze swirls around me as I walk to my car, and I think of the
things that used to be...the things that could have been, and I know 
that if I'd just been there for him when he needed me most...they are the
things that would have been.

*end