pressure (pushing down on me)

turnabout samurai

III.

October 19, 2016

"Happy birthday!"

He shrieks like a strangled cat, spasming awake on the couch and clutching the blankets to himself. He jerks his head to the right at an eruption of sound and he's blinded by brilliant, sapphire wrapping paper and tiny, shaking hands.

"Your fa-hahahace..." Standing above him, Maya is bent over in the force of her laughter. "Oh my Mother, that noise—"

"When did you get in here?!" he demands, voice like a rusty door hinge.

"The way you're covering yourself," Maya wheezes, cackling so loud she sounds possessed. "Like you're indecent—" She dissolves entirely, sucking down desperate air, and he sits up from the bed he's made on the office couch with a scowl.

"Yeah, well, you scared the hell out of me!" His mouth twitches and he crosses his arms, sniffing dramatically. "Forgive me for feeling vulnerable."

Maya tosses back her head, half-howling, and he can no longer fight the smile forming on his face. He sleepily rubs his eyes, attention wandering to the clock on the wall. Almost nine o'clock already. Five hours of sleep isn't bad. Thank God I started leaving a blanket in the office. He'd passed out on his desk at sometime around two in the morning last night, reading over the notes from Cody's testimony, and trudged groggily over to the couch an hour or so later after a dream that had jolted him awake to ache and darkness.

He's been dreaming a lot, lately. And he knows why.

He nearly fainted again when Mia returned in the courtroom the other day. Seeing her again, when he'd been so certain they'd said goodbye for good...He's grateful. So grateful.

But certain memories are better left buried. Mia has been dead for months now, and yesterday, it had almost felt like no time had passed at all. Add that to the fact that this is his first case since her murder trial...How long does it take to grieve someone when they're literally haunting you?

Yikes. Morbid, even for me. Maybe I need to make another appointment with the doc.

"Oh, man," Maya manages, composing herself and wiping away tears with a spare hand. "That was too good. Y'know, you asked for this when you gave me an office key. Now I have the power to drop by whenever I want!"

"Well, you insisted, partner," he says, mock sharply, and stretches towards the ceiling with a satisfying pop of the spine. "Ugh. But maybe you could call me first next time? I hate surprises."

"Old timer," Maya teases, plopping down on his legs. He yelps as she lands on his shins, curling backwards and glowering.

"I'm twenty-three," he grunts, twisting around to crack his lumbar vertebrae like bubble wrap. Hnnngh. Running on fifty. Why do I do this to myself?

"Twenty-four!" Maya sings, and stretches out the book-sized box in her hand. "Happy birthday, old man!"

A soft smile works across his face. He hasn't gotten a birthday present from someone other than Larry Butz since he was a kid, and a silly, soppy kind of excitement sweeps away the lingering sleep in his blood.

"How did you know it was my birthday?" He reaches out, taking the present like it's something fragile, and it crinkles satisfyingly in his hands. The shiny blue wrap is nearly a perfect match for his court suit.

"A little birdie told me," Maya says brightly. Something smells, Phoenix thinks fondly, and remembers the happy birthday text he got from Larry at midnight (who was up doing God-knows-what). "Hurry up and open it, already!"