Munch's Head Wordsmith
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Joined: 14-January 06
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A/N: Okay, so I've been working on this one for a good week. Some tough stuff to write and I really wanted it to be good. So far, I think it's lived up to my expectations. Tell me what you think.
Also, SVU does not belong to me. I guess Gwen does though.
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“Rain, rain go away. Come again another day.”
The water drowned out everything, including her voice. She carried on though, the reflection of the raindrop covered window haunting in her eye. A door slammed nearby and the reflection grew, her gaze never wavering, her voice never faltering. The sound of falling water disappeared, the heavy footfalls resounding in her head.
She wished it wasn't raining.
*******
Water dripped from the brim of his hat, joining the millions of other rain drops as it plummeted towards the concrete. He kept his gun down by his side for now, the cold metal reassuring in his hand. The crackle of a radio entered the rain soaked world and then faded out. The brim of the hat moved down quickly, once. It was time to go.
Doors proved no obstacle and were opened with brute force. Wet shoes soaked the thin carpets and calls of “Clear!” echoed through the sparse rooms. The man with the hat had the misfortune of entering the room that was painted yellow. The only colored one in the apartment, it smelled like hospital strength disinfectant. A form was sitting on the floor, small and huddled. In her eyes was a haunting reflection of the rain covered window.
The gun slipped back to his side and his eyes never left the moving mouth of the girl. The edge of her dress was in her white knuckled hands. That and her eyes alone indicated that she was frightened. The man dropped to his knees in front of her, taking away the reflection. There was no twitch, no flinch away, but her mouth stopped moving, remaining in a slightly open position.
Before he detected movement, her small arms were wrapped around his neck and his hat was pushed back off his head, falling to the floor and shaking droplets of water from it. Long arms gathered her up and took her from the yellow room and thin carpeted apartment out into the rain.
Something inside little Gwen Taylor told her that she was safe. The men who had brought her here meant only to help they said, but words did not truly tell her this. It was the old man with the hat who held her and never let go. His face, his eyes, his arms, and his hands. Ensconced in the warmth of his embrace, she knew that the terror was over and there was no need to fear the rain.
Yet still she sang. “Rain, rain go away. Come again another day.”
At first, when she had resumed her quiet singing, the man looked down curiously. She met his gaze and continued on. The melody was the only one that brought her comfort, the only words that ever felt true. Already the men had spoken more true words to her than she had ever known, but she had not yet fully accepted them.
After a moment, he looked away to study the raindrops on the rear passenger window.
“Rain, rain go away. Come again another day.”
***************
John Munch still didn't know how he had managed to pry the girl's arms from him. Her eyes had pleaded, though she made no sound. When he managed to break her grip off, he felt a piece of his heart go with her. One of the last pieces at that. Now standing outside the room, observing her with the other detectives as she sat and held on tightly to a stuffed bear, he couldn't take his eyes from her. It wasn't for fear that she would somehow vanish should he turn away for even a moment. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.
“John, you should be the one to talk to her.”
He didn't turn.
“She trusts you explicitly. Go.”
Even as he moved from two way mirror to door, she was gone from sight only for a fraction of a second. A heart thumping fraction that made him exhale in relief as soon as he opened the door and saw that she was right where he had left her.
“Gwen.”
Still holding the bear's arm tightly, she went immediately to the man who had removed his hat over an hour ago and looked up expectantly. He managed a weak smile and went to sit on the floor, having had a previous bad experience with petite chairs. As soon as he was settled, Gwen made to sit on his lap and he couldn't refuse her.
“We need to talk, Gwen,” he said softly, brushing back her hair with one hand as his other rested on her knee. Her knee that didn't even fill out his palm. Dear God...
“Is it still raining?” Her eyes searched his out and though the haunting reflection was no longer visible, he could still see it.
“No.”
The little body sitting on his thigh suddenly sagged and she collapsed against his chest. Their words were true. The truest she had ever known and now she could believe them. She could accept them and hold them close and call them her own. Now she had more than eight to comfort her. She had a whole arsenal.
The men and woman outside the room looked away, knowing on some level that what they were witnessing was more than they were allowed in this life.
John Munch had trouble maintaining control of his breath as it attempted to speed up and leave him a blubbering mess. Words, therefore, were completely out of the question and he simply held little Gwen Taylor to him until her voice came from beneath his chin.
“He comes in the rain.”
The old man straightened, settling Gwen someplace before him. “Who?”
Her gaze told him that she didn't know his name, only his actions.
“Does he come every time it rains?”
“Yes.”
He decided then that she could keep the piece of his heart, one of the last he had. “Did he come today?”
For a moment, she looked down at the brown teddy bear clutched in one hand. “You came today.”
And even for the weathered detective this was too much. He too clutched at the stuffed bear. “Does the bear have a name?”
“Mr Munchie.”
His eyes slipped shut and his head fell back against the wall. Dear God...
Gwen had all these true words, the truest she had ever known, floating through her head but they wouldn't be helpful now. Her true words couldn't help the old man who had silver hair under that hat. Gaze trained on his upturned face, she reached out her hand and put it on his.
An electric shock pounded through his body, originating in his right hand and travelling from there to his heart and then to his brain. Eyes flew open and his hand clamped shut on hers, trapping it in his long fingered grip. It wasn't tight, simply secure.
“How long were you there, Gwen?”
That small hand didn't fight his. “It rained a lot.”
The detectives outside stared this time, utter disgust pinning them to the moment. It was almost familiar, this deprivation, yet every time it came as a shock.
John kept hold of her hand. “When was the last time he came?”
“Yesterday.”
Anger surged up in his chest, coming to bubble just beneath the surface. Yesterday? Yesterday! Yesterday...
Yesterday was a world away. It was a second away. It was near and far, huge and insignificant, loud and quiet, hard and soft all at once. Yesterday was all those things to only two people. The girl and the old man. To Gwen Taylor and John Munch, yesterday was a million contradictions. The problem arose when one realized that it was yesterday. It was yesterday and there was nothing they could do about it now.
Yesterday was gone, hurried off into eons of yesterdays.
Yesterday.
“Do you know what time he came yesterday?”
“When I woke up.” In the morning then. “When it was getting dark.” Damn it. Evening too.
The next question was the worst. It was worse even than yesterday. “Gwen, I need you to tell me what he does.” Oh, John knew exactly what the man who came in the rain did to Gwen. He knew from knowing a hundred other little girls like her, but asked because he didn't know a single girl like her.
Her eyes did not seek his out. Could not seek his out. “He touches me.”
“Where?”
She was frozen. Then, slowly, her lips started to move. He leaned in close to hear her.
“Rain, rain go away. Come again another day.”
**********
The supply closet door across the hall didn't see it coming. When its wood splintered, it had no idea what had caused the damage. The second blow was just as sudden and the third quickly followed. The fourth got lost along the way.
The door had suffered damage before. There had been numerous occasions when a frustrated detective had taken out his anger on the door. Those times there had been yelling. There had been a blow or two and then nothing more. Someone would fix the door and all would be well again. The door never saw these things coming, but it knew well enough that this time was supremely different.
It was quiet. The detective behind the vicious attack stood, staring at the splintered wood. The door stared back. The detective raised his fist, contemplating seriously raining a fifth blow down. The door stared. The detective was joined by another man, a bald one, and his hand went to the detective's shoulder. The fist lowered.
“She wants you, John.”
Door and detective continued their staring contest.
“John.”
“I can't go back in there.”
“I know it's hard.”
“She keeps singing.” The voice of the man with the silver hair broke. “She keeps singing.”
“What does she sing?”
A shuddering breath. A lost memory. “Rain, rain go away.” Another crack in his voice. “Come again another day.”
And then the door won the staring contest.
************
It was painful to return and he lowered himself very carefully into the blue chair. This time Gwen did not come rushing over. She did not look up at him expectantly. She did not break his heart with her eyes.
She broke it with her distance.
“Gwen, come sit over here.” He knew, as sure as he knew his name, that his question had pushed her away and that she was keeping herself away because his status was falling from rescuer to traitor.
The girl, holding tight to Mr Munchie, walked slowly to the table and sat in the yellow chair. She kept her head bowed, her fingers twiddling with a stray fuzzy on the head of Mr Munchie.
“The man who came when it rained, did he ever talk to you?”
“Yes.” There was restraint in her voice.
“What did he say?”
The black eyes of Mr Munchie stared up at the silver haired man. “He was King Arthur and I was his queen.”
“He called himself Arthur?”
Mr Munchie stared wordlessly at John.
“Gwen, did he tell you his name? His real name?”
“I don't like being his queen.”
For the first time in years, John Munch felt his lunch rising rapidly in his stomach and there was no holding it back. Wrenching himself from the blue chair, he leapt for the door. It banged against the wall as once more he made his way to the supply closet.
***************
Ten minutes later the sweat was still damp on his face. The wall supported him and his partner stood near. Their eyes did not meet, nor did they seek each other out. They stood in their separate worlds that were irreversibly stuck together.
“Benson went in,” came the gruff voice of his partner.
He looked up sharply. “No, she can't.”
“Cap'n told her to.”
John moved away, the wall still needed but now unwanted. “She can't.” His tone was urgent. “No.” The words weren't forceful enough. He needed action. Walking down the hall, he paused for a moment at the two way mirror. Inside, Gwen and Benson sat. It was too much. The knob turned and they looked up to see John enter. There was a question on Benson's face. John did not let Gwen see the anger and the frustration in his eyes.
The question in her expression did not translate into words and she left. Gwen did not give her a second look. The man with the silver hair took his place in the blue chair again though the red chair his fellow detective had been sitting in was ready and waiting. He looked carefully at Gwen.
“Gwen, I'm sorry.”
Her eyes, her haunted eyes, sought out his again. He held her gaze, not wanting to lose it.
“I know that these questions aren't easy. I need to ask them though. With your answers, I can find him and arrest him and he'll go to jail for a really long time. Do you understand?”
After a moment, she hopped off her chair and went to him, tugging on his sleeve. Wordlessly he followed her to the spot where they had been sitting before on the floor. Once more, they took up their position of her being on his lap. Gently, he stroked her hair, pulling back a few stray strands.
“Can you tell me the man's name?”
“King Arthur.”
“That was all he ever called himself?”
A small nod.
Bracing himself, he repeated the question that had shut her down previously. “Where does he touch you?” Beneath his hand, he could feel the muscles in her back tighten. Dread trickled in the sweat still leaking from the back of his neck. His eyes moved around the room, trying to avoid looking at the girl on his knee. They landed on Mr Munchie. “You can show me on Mr Munchie,” he said softly.
She dropped the bear like a rock.
“Gwen, I promise you that he can never touch you again. I promise.” He forced all the conviction he could muster into that statement. He needed her to know.
Her hand was steady, but the muscles beneath his hand shook. Slowly, she pointed out the places. When she was done, she withdrew her hand, tucking it close to her body. John saw her eyes close tightly and without a second's hesitation, he pulled her body into his. He placed a gentle kiss on her head. “I promise, Gwen, I promise.”
The detectives outside the window all slumped, relieved that they had gotten something solid, something to work with. All took a moment to think privately before they had to throw themselves back into the case. And then they were off, leaving the captain to watch on as his senior detective tried to comfort the little girl.
**************
A man with a hat in his hand stood for a moment at the front doors to the precinct. The gun he wore was safely in its holster and would remain there. Inhaling deeply and with great resign, the man donned his hat, keeping his head bowed as he exited the precinct. He was indistinguishable from the others moving in and out of the police station and even jogged slightly like they did in an attempt to escape the pouring rain.
Drops of water accumulated on the brim of his hat and one by one they slipped off the edge and plummeted to the concrete, joining the millions of other rain drops. In his head, a familiar childhood song snaked its way through his thoughts, now a haunting memory.
Rain, rain go away. Come again another day.
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Every human being is intended to have a character of his own; to be what no others are, and to do what no other can do.
-William Ellery Channing
"Out of the box flew all of the horrors which plague the world today - pain, sickness, envy, greed. Upon hearing Pandora's screams Epimetheus rushed home and fastened the lid shut, but all of the evils had already escaped.
Later that night they heard a voice coming from the box saying,
'Let me out. I am hope.'"
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Rain, Simplicity is key sometimes.
