Running on Empty
by Pic
Series: Third one, follows Back In Circulation, Real People. An Evening To Remember linked at bottom.
Rated: T
Pairing: Anson Greene/Other - Het fic
Spoilers: Minor for Moloney
Summary: Anson is trying to destress
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters aren't mine.
Author's notes: Merry Christmas, Sue - as promised - the Anson tale inspired by a walk in the rain visual image. And, as always, thanks so much to Missy for the tireless beta, re-beta, re-re-beta, and so on - you always make me think (re-think, re-re-think and so on) through the characterizations and everything else. This may be a little confusing b/c Anson has two inner voices that are his own. Inner voices that are the voices of other people appear in [brackets].
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Vowing to get a new set of wipers when he got paid next, Anson Greene squinted through the streaks on the windshield and pulled his pickup truck into the high school parking lot. Now that there was a new indoor facility, virtually no one used the old cinder track. And well after hours on a rare evening of pouring rain in southern California, he knew he could count on having the oval to himself. Solitude, he thought, was best for running until you dropped. It avoided instances of morbid fascination and unwanted offers of assistance.
I want, I want, I want, I want, I want.
Jumping out of the car to the sound of his own voice in his head, demanding as a child's, Anson pocketed the key in his shorts and looked up at the dreary overcast sky. After only a moment's hesitation, he unzipped his hooded jacket and threw it into the passenger seat.
"I'll need something dry once I'm through," he murmured aloud, trying to drown out his internal mutterings, amazed that he actually almost wished to hear a voice other than his own needy one.
I want Callie.
Anson's conscious mind asserted itself a bit more articulately.
We're going out tomorrow night. No more waiting.
Today's session with Dr. Sid had been intense. Anson had walked out of the office with his shrink's tacit blessing, but Dr. Sid's cautionary advice prevented him from winding down. His mind raced from topic to topic, image to image, memory to fantasy and back again. That everything revolved around a central theme-Callie and their impending date-hadn't helped. Nearing the point of meltdown, his brain went into self-preservation mode, hollering for quiet.
Pale and already sweating from emotional stress, Anson tugged the blue tank top out of the black shorts but the familiar ritual-he'd never been comfortable running with a shirt tucked in-held no comfort. Stepping onto the track, Anson began to jog.
No stretching today; it's too fucking wet.
Get her wet and stretch her to fit.
Anson tried to retreat from a primal, erotic mental onslaught even as his body reacted. His fevered imagination showed Callie gorgeous in arousal, teasing, taunting, tempting, and finally goading him beyond his somewhat ill-defined boundaries of proper sexual behavior to a place he'd visited not so long ago with a different woman.
>Christ, I can't do that to her. I won't.
Declarations aside, Anson knew that he had to turn off his mind or he was going to end up on the floor of his tiny apartment, huddled in a fetal ball, crying tears of frustrated anger until he dropped into an exhausted sleep. Again.
[When in doubt, sweat it out!]
Ordinarily, the singsong voice of an annoyingly cheerful Florida social worker wouldn't be welcome in Anson's head. But these were not ordinary times. Not by a long shot. Not for him. He'd kept a job for more than two weeks, so he had money to spend on things beyond food and shelter. Running had replaced rage as his automatic reaction to things he didn't understand. It took longer to work, but Anson was learning patience as he shed a few extra pounds and waited for the other shoe to drop. Riding his little run of luck like a wave, Anson hoped it wouldn't break too close to shore or before he had dinner with Callie.
Everything seemed different. Even the voices in his head had changed. They usually didn't spout direct quotes anymore. At least, Anson didn't think so. He was channeling other people. It was weird. He didn't want to think like Dr. Sid or his mother or some dumb fuck minimum wage do-gooder, even if they had the occasional decent idea.
I've got an honest to God, one hundred percent genuine date tomorrow and I'm a fucking mess. Christ almighty, I can't buy a break.
The rain came down, his feet pounded the track and Anson Greene tried to stop thinking. And failed again as his doom-saying subconscious pessimism and an embryonic conscious optimism collided in his tortured brain.
You killed a cop. She's a cop. What the hell do you expect to happen?
Callie's smiling face came to his mind's eye and he clung to that positive image like his increasingly wet shirt was molding to his chest.
Nothing good. Nothing good can come of this. Best case is over-priced Spaghettios, a limp handshake, and the big lie of "I'll call you." Worst case-
No! Jesus Christ, please, let it go.
The pretty dark haired woman in Anson's mind lost her smile as her face contorted in contempt.
Wait! Back up! It could be ok. It's just …
[A date that arose from a good deed. Right?]
Matthew's voice. Calm, reasonable and enticing. Matthew, his look-alike from Canada, who had seduced Anson as surely as he fervently hoped Callie would. Not physically, Anson didn't swing that way, but emotionally, offering Anson what at the moment was only looking to be the illusion of self-respect.
He's the one that got me into this in the first place. He introduced me to Callie. Without him, I wouldn't be-
Out in the fucking rain, trying to run away from myself.
Anson stopped, sending up a smattering of cinders.
[You are the only thing you can't hide from, Anson.]
Breathing hard, he heard his shrink loud and clear in his head. Anson resumed moving, running rather than jogging, as his internal dialogue shifted to memory.
Sidney Kerrigan leaned on his elbows, gazing into Anson's eyes without blinking. The calm, slow intonation gave his words more strength, greater truth. "Are you sure about this, Anson?" he asked. "Maybe we should take some time to resolve a few more of your outstanding-"
Unnerved by the shark-eyed stare, Anson sullenly interrupted, "Sara was a mistake. Everybody makes them. You said so yourself."
Dr. Sid was unperturbed and unfailingly reasonable. "A mistake that you recognized on your own after the fact. All I'm asking is for us to try and improve the timing, Anson."
"No! I'm not going to look like a moron and cancel on Callie so we can have another talk about Sara. She might be looking for a way out; I'm not gonna hand one to her. I want my chance; I earned it!"
Anson wiped the rain off of his forehead and nervously ran the fingers of one hand through his wet hair, reliving the urge to kick himself for babbling and potentially giving Dr. Sid ammunition for his arguments.
"Things come up all the time, Anson. I'm sure she'd understand-"
Annoyed now as he had been then, he growled the same response, this time to no one. "Things don't come up for a guy who works construction, Sid. Jesus, don't bullshit me!"
"All right, Anson," Dr. Sid said, sliding his chair away from the desk, symbolically giving his patient more room. "Why didn't you want me to know Callie's name?"
Anson relived the moment of pure defensiveness on the track, stumbling as he entered into a turn. Dr. Sid changed subjects with the best of them.
"I … I just … it's private, is all. A man has to have some privacy."
"I see." Carefully putting down the expensive pen he always used to take notes, Dr. Sid said, "You're determined to do this. Well…your interactions with this woman have so far exhibited many of the signs of a mature emotional response. I can't say that I'm disappointed that you're seeking to interact with someone other than another former resident of your group home, despite my concern over the speed at which you are attempting it. If you feel that your course of action is appropriate, Anson, I'll wish you the best of luck and remind you that your choices are your responsibility."
Stunned by the outpouring from his 'the patient does the talking' doctor, Anson found himself trying to lessen his victory. "Don't worry, Sid. She might grant your wish and cancel on me."
"Oh? What does she do for a living?"
"Ah … she … um … she's a cop."
The small satisfaction that Anson experienced in clearly surprising Dr. Sid went by the wayside at the speed of sound. "I take it that she doesn't know your history."
Matthew's firm belief in him, based on little more than their resemblance and some strange form of people intuition that Matthew possessed, helped Anson to find his voice. "You keep telling me to make a fresh start. To … to learn from the past but live in the present. That's what I'm trying to do."
[Well, isn't that the story of your life, boy? Try, fail, lie, jail. It's all over but the crying and dying - right? Why not just get on with it, son?]
Running as fast as he could, barely feeling the burning in his lungs, Anson cringed when his mind supplied the voice of the partner of the cop he'd killed. Barely breaking stride, he slapped at the phantom hands that held him down while the cop acted out his grief through the application of frontier justice. Anson shook in reaction to the vivid tactile memory, but doggedly kept moving.
Will this shit ever end?
That's the point, stupid. There's got to be an end before you get a beginning.
An end? An end to what?
Slowing to a more comfortable pace, Anson pumped his arms and legs in effortless coordination, feeling that he was somewhere completely outside of his experience, yet on the verge of understanding something vital.
Dr. Sid's worried that I'm rushing into something with Callie. Matthew thought that Callie was strong and that I was good enough for a shot at being with her. Callie agreed to go out with me, even though her friend thought I was the worst kind of white trash.
Anson wasn't quite sure how those three thoughts tied together, but that uncertainty paled in comparison to the underlying apprehension that they called to mind.
I could be the biggest mistake Callie ever made.
Closing his hands into fists, he vowed, "No. I'm not going to blow this one. It might not work but I'm not going hurt Callie. Or myself."
Blushing, Anson recalled being hustled into a fancy department store by a female coworker from the construction site, who insisted, "Any woman worth your time is worth looking good for, honey. No blue jeans. No flannel. And absolutely no plaid. This is LA, Anson!"
He tried to explain that he hated shopping for clothes-really hated it in a way that he couldn't articulate.
New clothes make me itch, Arlene. Besides, I can't afford anything too nice. And … and I'll just spill stuff on it anyway. So you see how this is a big waste of time, right? Can we go now? Please.
Nothing moved Arlene or deterred her from her mission. "You've been at the site for four months now, Anson, and not one peep about a woman before this. I want to see you get who you're saving it for, sweetie. Let's go in here."
Dutifully following, Anson wondered aloud, "Why do you care who I …?"
Her laugh was full and throaty. "Don't think I don't see Ellis looking at your ass, honey. He makes one sorry fool of himself when you pass by, I'm sad to say. So every day, I asked the Lord if you were so quiet 'cause you were shy. And now, I can thank Him truly, for He's seen fit to answer my prayers that you didn't do men and give me the chance to do you a good turn."
"You … prayed about me?"
"Lordy, you're cute when you blush. No wonder your lady wants a dinner for two at that teeny tiny place. Keep your fine self focused on her."
Suddenly curious, Anson stopped and reached for Arlene's arm, removing his hand immediately when she whirled on him. "Sorry, Arlene."
"No, I'm sorry, Anson. You just want to know why I dragged you here, don't you?" When he nodded, she answered, "You're good people, honey. You do beautiful work on time. And, sweetie, I do mean beautiful. You make art with that cheap wood they made budget on. You don't cause trouble on the site. You throw your lunch trash in the can. And," she concluded with a sad smile, "you don't flip me or the other girls shit. That's a nice change, so don't you start, you hear?"
He agreed to keep the status quo and actually managed to relax until Arlene called all the saleswomen in the department to come and look at the "gorgeous man I found under tacky clothes and wood chips." Wanting to disappear and feeling the need to swing a fist at something, Anson fidgeted while the women gathered, admired the clothes and actually congratulated Arlene. When Anson risked a small smile at one and got a big, sort of goofy one in return, Arlene announced that they would take the items and shooed him off to change. After they exited the store, leaving almost an entire paycheck of Anson's behind, she scolded him for flirting with the help.
Realizing that denial would get him nowhere, Anson lamented his vanished paycheck. Arlene waved off any uncertainty. "You've got to invest in yourself, sugar. What you have, you can't buy. What you can buy polishes what you have. You get that?"
Anson had stayed quiet then but answered her now in his mind.
No. Not really, Arlene. I wish I did but…
[Oh, honey, you need to believe. Look in a mirror and trust that what you see is what a good woman will want. All we did today was package you for immediate consumption.]
Arlene's words in his head made him smile. She'd explained; he'd just been too distracted to hear her.
[This is Theodore. Ted. He's going to be your new father, Anson. Isn't that wonderful, son? Here's the new outfit that I bought for you to wear to the wedding.]
Yeah, whatever, Mom. Put my first brand new suit into the closet, will you? I'm trying to figure something out here.
Tank top and shorts saturated with rain, Anson Greene maintained his pace and struggled to make sense out of his rambling, rapid-fire thoughts.
Callie's different. She's a cop. She's smart and she's strong. But is she a beginning or an end? Or is she both?
Something in the symmetry called to Anson. Not the alpha and the omega of his barely remembered Catholicism, but his own tentative, hard-won, slightly unstable equilibrium.
Ok, if she's my new beginning, what does she end?
Legs rapidly tiring, Anson's mind sped onward. Individual images of his mother, Roxy and Sara shimmered in the rain until they ran together and formed one of Callie.
[What have you done, Anson? You've been a very bad boy.]
Yeah, Mom, I guess I have. Sorry.
[Are you crazy? Annabel's too young for that! She could've been hurt.]
I guess I got … carried away, Roxy. It … it won't happen again.
[Do me harder, Anson! I want to feel it. Hurt me, damn you. What are you waiting for?]
God, Sara, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I gave you what you wanted that first time but … but I'm not sorry that I couldn't do it again. When you said you wanted it rough, I didn't think you meant … ah … what you meant. I just … didn't think.
He hadn't spoken to any of them and right there in the pouring rain, Anson realized how much he wished that he had. But before he could wonder what might have been different, other bad decisions rushed forward to be counted.
[Get out before I throw you out, boy. Don't give me any lip. And if I see your white-trash ass in my county again, I'll kick it so hard you'll choke on my boot.].
All I wanted was the money I gave the bartender for the drink I never got. I was tired, broke, depressed and I really wanted to waste my money on that drink. You were a cop, damn it; you should have been on my side, not shoving me into a wall head first, but … but … I shouldn't have taken your baseball bat and …
Jesus, I can't do this!
Unfortunately, his mind gave him no respite.
Annabel's exuberant voice clicked to a dial tone before he could tell her any of the things he desperately wanted her to know.
Ah, man, it wasn't you. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd fucked up again and your orderly's uniform made you one of them.
Christ, how can I make up for that? For any of it? Sure, my PD got my battered ass off light for the cop, but that was only because his buddies took theirs out of my hide and didn't care who knew it. And then Maloney testified to how strung out I was and how the other cops fucked up his plan to talk me down and fried me, so I slid on an insanity plea for the orderly. Jesus, I don't even know his name. Budget cuts got me into a group home and I've kept my nose mostly clean since, but what does that mean? What does a few months of not fucking up bad enough to break parole change, really?
[Violence isn't the answer to your problems, Anson. It's the cause of them.]
Not remembering leaving the track, Anson nonetheless gratefully leaned on the hood of his pickup, trembling under the weight of the memories and the pronouncement of the Dr. Sid voice. Every time he'd been confronted, he'd lashed out and solved nothing. Anson lifted his head, wishing that the rain pelting down upon him could truly cleanse him of his regrets and mistakes.
[You have to change, Anson. Not everyone else.]
Maloney's voice. A little high and mighty, maybe, but there's generally something to what he says when he isn't trying to scam you.
Anson concentrated on the feel of the rain on his body and considered his tangled thoughts until a breeze sent a shiver through him.
Ok, here's the deal. Whatever happens with Callie, I'm going to … to do what Matthew would. I'll talk to her. And … and see what happens.
Still uneasy, Anson muttered, "Hell, she'd probably kick my ass if I tried anything else, anyway.
His mind settled. Anson sighed in relief. Tearing off his shirt, he realized that his plan to use it as a towel wouldn't work. It was wetter than he was. Grumbling, Anson unlocked the truck and bent over to toss the useless shirt and grab the dry pullover.
Someone whistled.
Fuck me! Giggling high school girls, staying late for some damn thing.
The impulse to leap into the truck and speed out of the parking lot gave way to a mildly forced wave that earned more giggles and a couple blown kisses.
There. That wasn't so hard. It wasn't talking, but it was communication. Sort of.
Starting the truck, Anson leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Fatigue washed over him and he welcomed it. If he could sleep without meds, he'd be more alert tomorrow.
That's important. Tomorrow's a big day.
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