Like Fire and Powder

03. The Subjective Race

Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.

-- Shakespeare, Hamlet

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When you got home that night, your eyes felt impossibly dry. They were burning, and it was hard to focus.

You stumbled into your apartment but didn't even bother to turn on the lights. You lived in a downtown area, fifteen minutes away from the precinct, and the city lights lit up your apartment enough for you to find your way through it.

As you made your way to your room, you put your purse in the hallway and took off your boots.

You heard a jingle and saw your eight-year-old brown tabby standing by the door frame to your bedroom. She meowed and adjusted her posture, stretching her front legs as she stood up straight, expecting a pat.

"Oh, Princess," you mumbled, picking her up. You gave her some good forehead kisses and then put her down on your bed.

Even though your evening routine wasn't anything special, you still wanted to keep up with it.

But . . . brushing your teeth and washing your face felt impossible just then.

So you wobbled over to the bathroom, feeling like absolute death on two legs, and then you used some soothing eye drops. After a few moments, they started to feel normal again.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, gripping the granite countertop. The light from the city poured into your room, but it stopped at your bathroom. It made your reflection look more like a shadow, but you could just make out the dark circles under your eyes.

You heard honking on the street below.

Your mind drifted and you closed your eyes, trying not to get in a mood.

Bedtime was always rough for you. Even though you'd been working on three-ish hours of sleep that day, you knew that as soon as your body hit the mattress, you wouldn't be able to fall asleep.

You'd tried tea, meditation, and hot showers for it. Melatonin, prescribed sleeping meds -- you name it.

You wiped at your face and brushed through your hair quickly.

Walking back into your room, you undressed and put on a robe. You grabbed your phone from your jeans, put it on the bedside table, and then you slipped into bed, allowing Princess to curl up on your stomach. She purred happily, content that you were finally home. She rested her head on her paws with a meow, closing her hazel eyes.

You thought, Maybe I'll get somewhere with sleep tonight, but your phone rang.

You started in surprise, scaring Princess a little bit. You fumbled for the phone, trying not to disturb your cat, and when you looked at the caller ID, your eyes widened.

It was Connor. Of course.

Hank had said something about your calls earlier that afternoon.

You blinked slowly, feeling drowsy, but you answered the call anyway.

"Hello?" You asked.

"Hello, (Y/l/n)?" It sounded like Connor moved and then shut a door. "You sound quiet, are you okay?"

You swallowed thickly. "I-- I'm fine, Connor. Don't worry about me. I'm just tired." You reached down with your free hand to pet Princess, gently tracing her brow and then scratching under her collar.

"Oh, do you want me to call back another time?"

"No," you said. You shook your head even though he couldn't see you. "I think we need to talk, anyway."