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Author's Note: Feedback is very welcome. Any type of constructive criticism is celebrated with a sacrifice to the Gods of Hershey. This is my first time posting a fic to this board, so let me know what you really think.

The Road Not Taken

by hetros

Lives like ours don't lend themselves to quiet contemplation.

We are faced so continually with archetypal nightmares, mythical foes, and catastrophic close-calls, that after awhile we can't help but grow numb. The combative possibilities of "Whose-Turn-Is-It-To-Hold-The-Remote" rather pale in comparison to the "How-To-Prevent-The-World-From-Ending(This Week)" conundrum.

And if somewhere in between battling arch-nemeses and blipping across the galaxy, we have forgotten the finer points of social interaction and interpersonal relationships, well, it's a price worth paying. A necessary evil. Occupational hazard.

And if any friendships or love affairs you do manage to have are stunted by your impenetrable walls (walls designed to keep out the hurt, cleverly adept at keeping out the love also), well, it's an acceptable trade. A worthwhile sacrifice. Good enough for government work. You don't even really mind.

Except..........

Sometimes late at night, you silently pad through the hallways and down the stairs, propelled from your slumbers by an itching, restless sensation you can't quite name. You prowl the house and the grounds, and finally settle in the kitchen, thinking perhaps a beer maybe is Just The Thing to settle your disquiet.

And this time you find one of your friends there, hands in her hair, a look of abstract dejection on her face. It's the kind of look a person allows themselves only when they believe they will not be seen. You catch her unawares as you enter, and the most chilling aspect to the whole scene is the horrible contrast between the vacant shell shock of her eyes and the ridiculous garish pink of her bunny print nightshirt. It seems those two things should not be able to exist simultaneously; they should cancel each other out.

She sees you and immediately her visage changes. Shutters come down in her eyes, and flags of Ennui and Bravado are raised. She needles you about your late night beer retrievals, while surreptitiously wiping her eye with her sleeve as you turn toward the refrigerator.

Cold bottle in hand, you sit across from her. You engage in the banter that is second nature to the both of you now, its rhythm so much easier than creating new conversation. She seems her old self in a matter of seconds, the prior darkness easily dispersing.

She announces her return to bed, glancing away from you and out the window. For a brief moment the moonlight is a revelation, and the phantom of her solemnity dances across her face.

And you think: I know That Look. I know That Feeling. I have Been There Before. I have hurt that way too. I could tell her. Perhaps she could tell me. Maybe....

Maybe I could help her.

You balance in that moment, as she places her glass in the sink. Part of your mind loudly announces that You Still Have Time as she moves towards the doorway.

Then she drops a kiss on your head, along with a surly "Good night, old timer."

And before you can think you respond with the rote "G'night kid."

Because the pattern is just so habitual, the walls are just so high, and its so much easier to leave everything as it is. It will all work out, it always does.

She is gone in a second, leaving you with the ghosts of your past inactions---a scrapbook of every time you could have changed it all with an extended hand, a soft word, the smallest deviation from the routine. Your arms suddenly seem miles long, and everyone you have ever loved is at the other end of them.

For one brief moment insanity grips you. You consider rousing the house, waking everyone with your cries. Screaming the truth: "Distance does not equal safety! Love does not equal weakness!"

The clock chimes then, reminding you how late it is. And in this business, tomorrow always comes early. You shake your head and emit a brief, humorless chuckle. Perhaps you are going soft in your old age.

And you move silently back through the house. You won't sleep anymore tonight, but you can at least meditate. Assuaging your conscience by telling yourself that Next Time you'll talk to her, you enter your room.

And shut the door behind you.