S2, E10 | Closure

Season 2 Finale

\ Monday, May 28th, 2007 /
\ 11:43 pm est. - 8:43 pm pst. /

The bureau quiet, Robin sits alone at an empty desk, her forehead resting within the bridge between her thumb and index finger. Hearing footsteps approach her, Robin pays them no mind, insouciant to their advancement, the past twenty four hours having expended her vivacity. Though her head refuses to leave her hand’s purlicue, Robin’s eyes open, the dark backside of her eyelids beginning to lull her into an uncomfortable nap.

In Vickers’ steady hand, a foam cup of black coffee obstructs Robin’s view of the blue carpet, small diamond-shaped specks lining the floor in an effort to look fashionable. “Bruce landed at Malpensa about twenty minutes ago” Vickers remarks, pulling a second chair beside the woman and claiming it, a second cup of coffee kept for himself, “I’m confident that we got the right hotel, so it shouldn’t be long before he gets back to us.”

Steam still rising from the flimsy grail, Robin sips at her beverage, voice slightly hoarse and calm. “What time is it over there?” the woman inquires, setting her drink upon the nearest desk as Vickers takes to his wrist watch. “Just about six in the morning” Vickers replies, his left arm resting by his side, “Taylor wakes up at three every morning and likes going to the gym early. I’m assuming she’s too stubborn to let jetlag win- the safe guess is that they’ll be there when Bruce arrives.”

Little else to add, Robin gives Vickers a nod, arms crossing over her chest as she looks to the eight o’clock newsroom, its first level as unoccupied as the levels above it. “Do you remember when this was Herb Norman’s floor?” Robin inquires, hearing the breathy laugh that flows through Vickers’ nose. “That’s a question as dated as ‘remember when everyone was gushing over disco?’, Robin” Vickers replies, the air quiet aside from their voices.

“Please, if you want ‘dated’ then you ‘ought to look past the disco” Robin responds, her glasses set beside her coffee cup, “that moustache hasn’t just been ‘dated’, it’s practically been lapped.” As if no different from two friends riffing at a bar, Vickers and Robin sit with their arms crossed, occasionally breaking their pose to reach for the caffeinated drink beside them.

“Disco was the first time I’d ever felt old. Not the ‘people don’t look at me as the young one anymore’ kind of old, but the ‘you just don’t get it’ kind of old” Robin remarks, Vickers’ drink now resting in his lap, just as if it were expensive scotch. “Grow up with Elvis and Ray Charles in the 30’s and 40’s, then look at what happens when you get to the 70’s” Robin muses, her eyebrow lifting as she peers toward Vickers, “all of a sudden you’re surrounded by ABBA and the Bee Gees.”

“What a step down, huh?” Vickers replies, the inside of his bottom lip pressing between the space in his teeth, a smirk beginning to fade. “Remember when we used to hate the thought of growing old?” Vickers inquires, letting a few silent seconds pass before finishing his thought, “when it scared us?”

The desolate newsroom giving the pair a true sense of isolation, Vickers’ thoughts continue, the woman he shares his company with too captivated in nostalgia. “I was- oh, maybe sixteen?- when my father asked me what this Buddy Holly guy was. Apparently, he thought it was the name of a rubber company” Vickers recalls, the drink swirling around his cup’s inside, “he just looked confused when I told him it was the name of a singer. I don’t think he knew what to make of it.”

“Was he just sitting at the table reading the paper or-?” Robin inquires, stopping herself as Vickers’ head shakes. “I got off the bus from school. He was putting up a fence in our front yard when I came home. I guess one of his colleagues had a son who’d heard the name?” Vickers ponders aloud, “however it came about, he had this weird look on his face when I told him. Almost like he didn’t understand it, but that inability to ‘get it’ was more important than his confusion.”

“Like an acceptance” Robin replies, the smirk in the corner of Vickers’ face certifying her assumption. “Like he was trying to be okay with getting up there in age” Vickers concludes, his cup lifted to the air, a passing glance taken toward the ceiling, “god bless that man.” Sharing the gesture, Robin joins her cup aside Vickers’, holding it high for a few, brief seconds before taking back another sip.

“I never did understand that look until I got older. For some reason, it just stuck with me- like I could picture it all those years later” Vickers explains, “-that’s when it made sense.” Her legs crossed gracefully, Robin’s eyes take to the offices that line the bureau’s edges, a warm smile emerging. “People don’t really give age much thought, do they?” Robin queries, Vickers’ head shaking, “no one really thinks about what happens when people feel themselves get old.”

“They don’t, and I almost sort of like it that way” Vickers replies, Robin’s head tilting out of interest. “Sure, getting old scared me at first- but no one ever distinguished me for it.” Vickers replies, “I got to age in peace. Now I’m turning 72 in the fall, and spending the last thirty-plus years worrying about it would have been such a waste in hindsight.”

Holding her cup toward Vickers’, Robin clashes the foam layers together, a subdued squeak brought from their exterior. “We’ve done more with our last forty years than most people do in an entire lifetime” Robin remarks, a prideful grin on her face as she sinks into her chair, legs still crossed together, “here’s to our twilight years.”

= Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

\ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 /
\ 6:03 am cet. - 12:03 am est. /

“I really wish we would have talked about this before leaving for Italy” Grant replies, a small touch of humour hidden behind his complaint. “I know enough” Taylor responds, her privates covered only by a white, hotel-supplied towel that tucks loosely within itself. “I need your help finding the nearest police station- go ahead, in Italian” Grant challenges, the glare he receives back from Taylor implies her displeasure at his doubt.

“Penso di dover solo dire polizia perché tu sia soddisfatto” Taylor replies, her eyes glancing at the ceiling as she speaks, nearly stuttering over some words, “good enough for you?” Able to translate only the sixth word, Grant shrugs, forced to leave the conversation there as knuckles tap against their door. “Our taxi is gonna be here in about ten minutes” Grant calls out, his girlfriend departing for the washroom, “-whatever maintenance you’ve got to tend-”

“Salutations” Bruce remarks, hands tucked into his pockets as the door opens, Grant’s face dropping upon his agent’s sight. “Glad to see you made it here safely” Bruce proclaims, letting himself into the room as Taylor returns, able to hear his voice from the end of the hall, “that applies double since I never knew you were coming here period.”

“How-” Grant begins to query, Bruce’s hand extended toward his direction, silencing him before the question can even be raised. “The first question you should ask isn’t ‘how did you know where to find us?’, Grant” Bruce corrects, a single glance toward the rear patio presenting the view of a scenic lake, its edge hidden beneath the surface of a rocky cliff. The shock of his manager’s presence subsiding, Grant becomes regretful, his head lowering the longer Bruce stays quiet.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you” Grant apologises, his words cut off for a second time. “You’re damn right you should have told me” Bruce replies, his obvious aggravation unable to raise his voice past a normal tone, “what do you think would have happened if something happened to the two of you out here?”

“It wasn’t personal, Br-” Grant attempts to respond, his reply interrupted for the third time, more anger behind Bruce’s interjection this go around. “It would have been the most well-covered search mission of all-fucking-time!” Bruce exclaims, the vein in his forehead just beginning to present itself in detail, “LMC would have been stuffed to the neck with questions, and suspicion, and all the fucking gossip in New York- and that’s a lot of fucking gossip!”

“I di-” Grant again attempts to speak, the fourth interruption he faces emerging with outright scorn. “You’ll speak when I fucking tell you!” Bruce screams, the vein now fully defined, a few drops of spit flying from his lips, “I’ve got one fucking job and you make me look like the most incompetent prick on the western hemisphere!”

Acknowledging his punishment, Grant hangs his head once more, opting to remain silent with his hands coupled behind his back. “No calls, no emails, not even a fucking note! Fucking nothing!” Bruce screams, his face going red as he relents, a deep breath taken as he tries to calm himself, Grant’s face raising to look Bruce in the face, the anchor having no intention of speaking himself.

“And all for what?” Bruce wonders aloud, his arms swinging by his sides as he relaxes, sharing in the eye contact Grant provides him with, “just to open old wounds over Howard-fucking-Nalty.” Having previously appeared rested, Grant’s eyes now widen, rolling as he bites his lip. “Yeah- we all fuckin’ know” Bruce remarks, both anchors already aware of their discovery, unable to hide it any longer.

“And now I’m here, in Milan, trying to stop the two of you from making the biggest mistake of your lives” Bruce concludes, lifting his arms in confoundment, “what’s the fucking point of all this, Grant?” 

Hands firmly pressed upon his hips, Grant looks Bruce in the eyes, the man clearly exhausted from travel, the conflict they partake in unable to help matters. “Your analogy is wrong” Taylor murmurs, still stood near-nude in the hallways entrance. “Your analogy about the old wounds is wrong” Taylor repeats, taking Bruce’s curious expression as a request for elaboration, “you can’t open wounds that never closed to begin with.”

His lips pressing together into a frown, Bruce peers back to Grant, the man’s hand running through his recently-dampened hair. Ashamed, Grant looks back to his manager, Bruce’s hands having ceased their sway, the suit-clad man left waiting for Grant’s response. “He’s always been there” Grant whispers, a sombre shake of his head made, “the deal with Kelsi, everything at CSN, the way I started with LMC- it all leads back to him.”

Opening his mouth to speak, Bruce’s mouth soon closes, his head tilting back as he sympathises with the man’s torments. Without a word, Bruce’s eyes turn to Taylor, who remains in her towel, tacitly waiting for the conversation to resume. “I’m sorry for not telling you about Italy. It was a stupid move and it was inconsiderate, but I don’t regret it” Grant explains, retaining the courage to stand by his decision, “but I’m settling this with Howard today.”

“How are you gonna do that, Grant?” Bruce asks, his voice scratchy and weak, too strained from the previous shouting to project itself clearly. “You gonna kill him? Huh?- Maybe beat the shit out of him?- what’s the plan here?” Bruce suggests, slowly stepping closer to the anchor, “you gonna fuck his wife on the front lawn? Just what the hell are you gonna do!?”

“I’m gonna talk to him” Grant replies, immediately earning an eye roll, Bruce’s hands thrown up in the air. “Of course you are!” Bruce responds, unable to turn himself away from the distressed reaction he’d arrived with, though he desperately wishes to. “It’s going to be different this time” Grant replies, convincing himself that such a statement is true.

“You can say that until you’re blue in the face- it still won’t change a damn thing” Bruce replies, his hands sliding down the inside of his suit jacket, “at the back of your mind, he’ll always still be there. Every time you think about him on-air, every time you hear Jessica’s name, every time you think of Kelsi, everytime you- just everytime! Everytime, everytime, everytime!- it’s just gonna be Howard.”

“I have to try” Grant quickly declares, waiting for a response that never arrives, Bruce’s tired expression just holding upon him silently. The room left in utter quietude, Bruce and Grant look into each other’s eyes, almost waiting for the other to break first. Before another word can be muttered, the phone nearest Grant’s side of the bed begins to ring, none of the room’s occupants appearing keen to address it.

“That’s the taxi” Grant grumbles, his statement prompting Taylor to return to the washroom, her intentions set on joining Grant in his efforts. Nothing left to say, Grant retrieves a knapsack from the foot of the bed and throws it over his shoulder, Bruce continuing to look at him with complete silence. “You don’t have to approve- neither do Vickers and Robin- but this is what I want” Grant explains, his voice kept low, almost personal in a way, “please, don’t try to talk me out of it.”

Turning toward the door, Grant waits for Taylor’s return, continuing to reside within Bruce’s sights, the agent looking to his client with a sorry expression. After another minute, Taylor emerges from the bathroom, wearing dark blue jeans just as Grant does, though her tight, navy blue tank top contrasts from her boyfriend’s loose white t-shirt.

“I’m not going to” Bruce finally remarks, Taylor just beginning to step through the door Grant props open, both anchors turning back to return their attention to the suited man. As if convinced of the arrangement’s importance, Bruce steps through the door, squeezing past Taylor as he enters the hallway. “Let’s go” Bruce murmurs, taking the group’s lead, joining them on their uncertain travels.

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\ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 /
\ 12:12 am est. /

“I’m serious, it was a good show” Carly adamantly comments, stepping into the bathroom of her en suite. “I can’t put on a ‘good’ show when the lead anchor isn’t you” Aiden replies, the covers pulled up to his lap as he sits against the headboard, “the ceiling doesn’t reach that high when I’m stuck with transplants from Los Angeles and Houston.”

“You give me too much credit. That, or you give my tits too much credit- I’m not quite sure which one” Carly retorts, unable to sway her boyfriend’s opinion. “It’s not one part of you specifically- it’s all of you” Aiden replies, plugging his Blackberry into the nearest charger, “it’s like that show on that gaming network. There’s Olivia and some other dude I don’t know the name of because- well, why the fuck would I?”

“Because you’re a connoisseur of all media- good or bad” Carly replies, scrubbing her face with a baby blue-coloured lotion. “I’m a connoisseur of media with attractive women in it- as is, like, one hundred percent of the American male population age ten-through-one hundred and ten.”

“Who says what you’ve got now isn’t sexy enough to catch eyes?” Carly jokes, her index and middle fingers pressing forcefully into her chin. “What I’ve got no- are you kidding me?” Aiden counters, immediately hearing Carly’s laughter, “oh yes, how could I forget? When I think of sexy, the first person that pops into my mind is Jerry Seinfeld’s second cousin-removed!”

“That’s funny-” Carly quips, her hands pressing together, rubbing a second lotion between her fingers, “-I took you for more of a George Costanza-type.” His head shaking, Aiden returns his attention to the nearest television, the channel turned to reruns of ‘Murphy Brown’. Dressed in loose short-shorts and a crop top, Carly wanders out of the room, her mind set elsewhere.

Trying to pass the time, Aiden minds his own business, hands folded atop the ruffled comforter as his legs cross, just a white t-shirt and a pair of boxers worn on his person. Buzzing atop the nightstand, Carly’s Razr lights up, it’s base plugged into a thin, black cord. Though his ears keep to the television, Aiden’s eyes set upon the device, his foot tapping against the bed’s end as the phone buzzes a second time.

The nightstand crafted out of wood, each buzz rattles the sturdy tabletop, the phone slowly drifting closer to the table’s edge with each alert. Gazing toward the door, Aiden presses his elbow into Carly’s side of the bed, their phones laying on opposite sides of the mattress, left to charge beside the pillows of their respective owners.

For the fifth time, Carly’s phone buzzes, Aiden’s face close enough to the device for its harsh light to poorly illuminate his face, an envelope icon displayed in the text window. Peering toward the door for a second time, Aiden remains alone, his girlfriend’s footsteps, if existing at all, step nowhere close to their room.

His bottom lip caught between his teeth, Aiden stares at the phone again, its screen lighting up for the sixth time, the icon of a closed note displayed yet again. Tempted, Aiden frees his arm from the indent it’s created on Carly’s side, his outstretched fingers reaching for the cellular gadget.

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\ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 /
\ 6:52 am cet. - 12:52 am est. /

Holding his thumb to the gate’s buzzer, Grant awaits a response, hell-bent on drawing a reply from the home’s owner, either through persuasion or annoyance. “Is this intentional or your emotions claiming control over you?” Bruce inquires, worried the answer to his question will predict this confrontation’s outcome fairly.

Pulling his finger away from the flat, silver button, Grant considers his answer whilst waiting at the gate, it’s luxurious, metal frame work all-too tasteful for its owner’s worth. “Intentional” Grant responds, his voice oddly lacking in emotion, a sound Bruce doesn’t quite know what to make of.

Unable to see the home’s front door, the trio can hear the presence of life emerge from within the lavish structure’s interior, a few latches opening to release the occupant from its spacious residence. Shuffling over asphalt, Howard rounds a corner, its empty space decorated with pleasant flora and fine embellishment.

“How the hell did you find me out here?” Howard inquires, his hair having grown out and turned grey, his face occupied by an equally-grey, short beard. “You see us standing at your front gate- in Italy- and that’s your first question?” Grant responds, staring Howard up from head to toe. “It’s a rather appropriate question, no?” Howard rejoinders, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt equally grey to that of his hair hidden beneath a blue robe, his feet strapped into a pair of flip flops.

“For most other people- sure” Grant replies, his expression cold, purposefully displaying no signs of anger or empathy, his presentation implying a lack of care over the condition Howard greets them in. “And the three of you are different from most other people because-?” Howard replies, hoping for one of the three people stood at his entrance to finish the sentence.

“You know the answer to that question” Grant replies, his hands held calmly by his sides, the muscles in his abdomen tensing as the conversation draws on, a deep desire to attack Howard forcefully contained. “Do I? I’m not so sure anymore” Howard responds, trudging closer, his face equally as blank as Grant’s, though for very different inspirations, “everyone hates me, wants me dead, and wishes I was never born. Exactly how are the three of you any different?”

“We know where you live- that’s a start” Taylor murmurs, her interjection dismissed by the disparaged news anchor, Howard almost entirely ignoring her presence. “What have you come here for, Grant?” Howard wonders aloud, a mere few metres away from Grant’s reach, almost threatening the man to take a shot at him from behind the gate.

“You come here to see if I’m still alive?” Howard inquires, his dishevelled appearance giving the presentation of a weak man vulnerable to whatever Grant wishes. “I could have called you for that. I found your address, I could have easily done the same for your number” Grant replies, allowing Howard to respond in lieu of a second thought he doesn’t have.

“Then why are you here?” Howard inquires, dragging his feet another few centimetres forward, “did you come here to look me in the eyes? Maybe tell me I’m a gutless pig?” Nostrils flaring, Grant stares the man in the eyes, the cloudy skies preventing the heavens from having to witness their encounter. “No” Grant replies, the answer leaving Howard with little other reason.

“Then what’s this for?” Howard queries, stepping the final few centimetres ahead, only the gate holding them apart, Howard’s face close enough for Grant to feel his breath, “why are you here?” His arms bare, a single raindrop falls from the sky, colliding with the knuckle of Grant’s index finger as the question remains unanswered. Seething, Grant continues to look his once-mentor in the eyes, the raindrops beginning to fall faster.

Silent, Grant raises his hands toward the gate, his fingers wrapping around the grilles, the raindrops quickly devolving into a storm. “I’m here to settle this” Grant replies, the drops of rain beginning to drip from the tip of his nose. With a breath, Howard nods, his face unchanged from the unconcerned expression he’d worn minutes prior. Without a second thought, Howard retreats to a panel near the gates side, the press of a single button releasing the gateway from its restraints.

The display catching him by surprise, Grant watches the entrance open, his foe retreating to the middle of his walkway, leaving Grant room to enter. “Grant, this isn’t a good idea” Taylor whispers, her left hand finding Grant’s own, her concerns unanswered. “You have no clue what he’s hiding” Bruce adds, throwing his support in Taylor’s corner, the invitation offered sitting poorly with him.

“The man’s a mess, his life is a ruin, and you’re on top of the world right now” Taylor carries on, gently pulling Grant’s hand away from the gate, trying to usher him the way they’d arrived, “you’ve won.” Holding his arms out, Howard presents Grant with the choice, enduring the rainstorm with a smile. Hearing Taylor’s claims, Grant becomes less reliant on the unobstructed passage afforded to him, his right leg beginning to step away from the home.

Without a word, Howard watches Grant’s single step become a full-on retreat, the man turning back to those he shares his new life with, joining them on the desertion. Her hand falling from Grant’s, Taylor persists forward, she and Bruce taking an additional few steps toward the car before their attention returns elsewhere. “Grant!” Bruce exclaims, the first to see Grant pursue his visit’s intention, his attempt at rushing back proven pointless.

Stepping through the gate, Grant slams the passage shut, locking Bruce and Taylor on the front lot’s other side. “Go back- I don’t want you to see this” Grant proclaims, pulling himself away from the pair’s reach, his eyes set on the man his past has become entangled with. The sky roaring, rain begins to fall harder, Grant’s feet planting into the ground, his face staring directly into Howard’s.

“You’ve come all this way” Howard murmurs, his hair soaked just as Grant’s is, arms stretching outward, daring Grant to lay in his best shot, “-make your money, big shot.” His hands balled into fists, Grant huffs in strong, deep breaths, his mind racing with too many thoughts for him to hear Bruce and Taylor, their voices still pleading with him to turn back.

Unable to hold back any longer, Grant steps forward, his right hand keeping the fist as his left hand lays by his side. Pulling his arm back, Grant moves in for a punch, looking Howard in the eyes before stopping, his hesitance brought on curiously. His eyes closed, Howard’s face lacks any scrunch, his body refusing to tense up, almost as if he were openly accepting the inevitable assault.

As the seconds pass, the punch never comes, Howard’s pressed eyelids forced to part amongst this inquisitive result. The anger in his face having turned into a look of shock, Grant watches Howard’s eyes open, the man making no attempt at declaring a fight. “What are you waiting for?” Howard asks, unable to comprehend Grant’s irresolution, “hit me.”

His mouth agape, Grant remains posed as if he were mid-strike, his puzzled expression beginning to ease, another loud roar of thunder arriving as his fist slowly returns to his side. “What are you doing?” Howard wonders aloud, watching Grant’s hand fall, “do it.” Looking Howard in the eyes, Grant takes two steps away, the befuddled countenance Howard had stared at him with now becoming a look of sincere desperation.

“No” Grant replies, his voice soft, his head shaking, Howard’s eyes beginning to widen as his face tenses. “Wh- what do you mean ‘no’?” Howard responds, surprised enough by the man’s response for his legs to become less steady, requiring Howard stabilise himself. “I’m- I’m not going to hit you” Grant replies, taking another two steps back, the distance he creates between them only bringing further shock over the larger man.

“Yes-the fuck-you are!” Howard exclaims, matching Grant’s retreat by taking two steps forward, the thunder roaring yet again. “No. I’m not” Grant replies, another two steps back taken, Howard’s response much the same, a more-shaky pair of steps forward moved. “Fucking hit me, Grant!” Howard shouts, his hands beginning to shake, the rest of his body beginning to tremble as badly as his legs do.

In the distance, a bolt of lightning strikes the ground, a burst of light ripping through the sky just over the retreating party’s head. “No” Grant replies, another slow, solid two steps taken backward. “Fucking hit me!” Howard exclaims, his voice cracking as he screams, attempting to match Grant’s steps, though too overcome by his reckless desire to take him any further.

With a thud, Howard collapses to his knees, his body trembling with a mix of anger and grave desperation. In utter silence, Bruce and Taylor watch on, listening to each individual raindrop attack the ground, only able the spectate the encounter from afar. “Fuucckkiinngg hhiitt mmee!” Howard roars, his face shaking as he screams, looking up to Grant for the first time in his life.

Stood over the man, Grant closes the only two steps between himself and the besmirched news icon, staring down at him from above, all of the control resting in his hands. With a sigh, Grant’s balled fist unravels, his fingers resting calmly as he raises his hand, Howard’s eyes closing in hopes that he’d finally convinced Grant to give in. “Go ahead!” Howard exclaims, his eyes closed, chin tilted toward the ground, the rain hitting the hardest that it will, “hit me, Grant!”

Anticipating the sensation of an open palm across his face, Howard instead feels the man’s hand gently come to a rest on his shoulder, another bout of thunder crashing through the dark skies. His eyes opening again, Howard’s jaw drops, his eyes lifting back toward Grant’s, the last shred of hope he’d held at vengeance being dished upon him, that the suffering for his actions would be righted on this day- of all days- dies.

“Scratch your own damn back” Grant answers, letting his hand fall from the man’s shoulder before turning back, his thumb laying into the gate’s panel. “Grraanntt!” Howard yells, watching the man pull the gate inward, rejoining Bruce and Taylor as he moves forward, “GRRAANNTT!”

Pulling the gate shut, Grant reclaims the group’s lead, Taylor and Bruce quickly following beside him. His left hand patting Bruce on the back as his right is joined with Taylor’s, Grant proceeds forward, a smile worn on his face as he stays quiet, his closing statement already offered elsewhere.

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\ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 /
\ 1:01 am est. /

“Well tell him the next time he’s looking to settle scores, he better fucking tell me first!” Vickers shouts, his arms thrown in all directions. “Get back safely!” Vickers shouts back, throwing the phone back onto the receiver, the force used nearly knocking him off his own feet. “I don’t know why I yelled that last part, but it felt right” Vickers muses, taking in a deep huff of air as he looks to Robin with a smile.

“I’ve never seen you this angry before” Robin murmurs, only able to muster a smile from the first man beneath her in the executive chain of command. “I’m a little light-headed, I won’t lie” Vickers laughs, his hand pressed against Doug’s desk, beads of sweat beginning to run from his forehead. “Well, you sit down for a minute and come down when you’re ready” Robin replies, patting the man on the shoulder, “I’ll have them pull the car around and give you a lift home.”

“Thank you, Robin” Vickers grunts, reclaiming his breath as she nods, returning the way she’d entered hours prior, letting herself out as Vickers calms. Exhaling a deep sigh, Vickers pulls himself away from the desk, a simple look around the room leaving his eye to catch upon Aiden’s office. Glancing around the unoccupied office once, Vickers approaches the man’s chambers, the transparent glass shielding its interior from the bureau a stark difference from that of Grant and Taylor’s quarters.

The room too dark for proper sight, Vickers stumbles into Aiden’s desk, almost tripping over himself halfway through entering. Yanking the pull chain on the nearest lamp, Vickers scans the man’s tabletop, its surface covered in large folders and electronic equipment. The space not decorated with much, Vickers considers the space within to be void of anything worth peaking his interest over.

As he turns to leave, Vickers’ eyes catch a framed photograph, the only accessory dawned upon his barren wall aside from a few clocks set to international times. With a smile, Vickers carefully removes the picture from the wall, an image of Aiden from his first day behind the controls of ‘Tonight at Nine’ displayed in the small frame, the look of joy and wonder plastered over his face.

Nodding to himself, Vickers lifts the frame toward the nail it’d been stationed upon, though a sudden jerk in his arm forces it from his hand, the frame falling to the ground and shattering upon impact. His mouth agape, Vickers stumbles backward, his legs weak as he turns toward the man’s door, eyes set on the empty bureau just beyond him. Eyes widening, Vickers pushes himself forward, losing control of his legs as he clutches at his chest.

With a gasp, Vickers throws himself through the door at the last minute, his legs giving out as he crashes into the ground, his body having become a doorstop as he rolls onto his back. Lips quivering, Vickers stares toward the lights in the ceiling, his right hand stretched across his chest, resting upon his heart. Silent, the room remains as is, nothing out of place aside from the now-empty coffee cups atop Doug’s desk, the frequently-rowdy bureau left painfully quiet.

== Tonight at 9 ==