Because the ending of “Dignity” drove me insane. The standard disclaimer applies.

Grayscale

The silence was complete, and in it she found solitude from the storm. Their storm; not nature’s, though at this point she’s not sure which is deadlier. In the silence she finds solitude, and for the first time since the abrasive encounter with both superiors, she can hear her heart beating in normal time. Relief breaks the surface of her apprehension, and the breath she draws liberates the tension held prisoner in her stiffened frame. In the quiet, she can hear her own thoughts whispering above the residual din of the miniature war waged earlier between her shoulder devil and its angelic counterpart.

He speaks her name like a humbled man attempting to petition a scorned goddess for clemency, and she peers up from the depths of her personal ambiguity to grant him a sole glance of fleeting impartiality. He stands with his arms at his sides, his shoulders slumped from the weight of his own misgivings. A sovereign ruler who once reigned over the kingdom of the wronged, now fallen from grace in the eyes of his traitorous protagonist. He searches for the words that never come, and her shoulder devil mischievously leans forward to whisper idle suggestions to immediately dismiss this unlikely supplicant.

“For what it’s worth,” his voice breaks the sound barrier established by the silence and forces her to meet his pleading eyes. It’s ill-suited to his presumptuous demeanor, and she doesn’t want to stare down the whipped-puppy look reflected in his eyes. “I don’t want you to leave, Connie.”

The shoulder angel urges her to grant him mercy and still the waters by reinforcing his long-held belief in her constant presence. She plays the role of the janitor, cleaning up the messes and mitigating the damages like an already sodden sponge.

“I think,” she takes a breath, “it might be for the best if I was anywhere but here.” She stares down at her desk as if the scattered paperwork can somehow shed light on the elusive truths she seeks. “I can’t always be around to play clean-up crew, Mike.”

The expectant look she gives him says that he’s supposed to understand her comment, spoken in a rushed sigh.

“The clean-up crew? Connie –”

“No,” she interrupts with a meaningful shake of head. “I can’t keep being your shadow, the dutiful and reliable assistant always there to await your orders with an open law book and helpful advice. I have my own morals and thoughts and opinions, and I can’t have you and Jack always expecting me to swallow them just so you can walk a legal tightrope on an already unstable case. This isn’t my job, Mike.”

The light of the city beyond the window has caught her just right, sharpening angles rather than illuminating. It’s not a kind moon tonight, and he wonders what damage the revealing glow does to him. “It’s not exactly a normal occupation,” he points out. “Sometimes you have to push aside your own beliefs for the greater good. Even if it means swallowing your opinions until you choke.”

“But at the end of the day, I don’t answer to the greater good. I answer to the person I see on the other side of the mirror, and Mike... it gets harder and harder for me to justify some of the things we’ve done.”

“The things we’ve done? Connie, we don’t have the luxury of answering to ourselves. Greater good aside, we answer to the people of this city. But if this is what you want... I’m not going to stop you,” he confesses with a downcast glance.

“Thank you.” She dips her head in a gesture of sincerity, eyes closed in a moment of self-contemplation. “It’s not you, Mike. It’s this damn job.”

“And you think working white collar will make you happier?”

“Not happier, but at least I’ll be able to live with myself.” But the world of Homicide is bathed in the light of the grayscale, and she suspects she’s been tainted by the view from the ivory tower constructed for the sole purpose of enabling existence above the carnage and bloodshed. After so long, she doubts the effectiveness of her color vision, and upon reawakening from a three year slumber, she fears the Technicolor world will be blinding.

“So, I guess this is goodbye?”

She doesn’t respond, can’t response, but the desk she fixates on holds none of the assuring answers she yearns to hear. If this is a goodbye, it’s lacking on her part, but the ingredients for her rehearsed explanation sour in her mouth, sticking in her throat like clotted sorrow. She worked through hardships far more intimidating than this: being used as bait for a juror with boundary issues, fighting a battle of legal maneuvers while slaving over the consequences reaped by an untimely strike, Carly (an explanation in of itself), not to mention the multitude of conflicts dotting the road of their case files like inconvenient potholes.

“I always thought it would end differently than this, Mike.”

“Different how?”

“I always thought I would outlast you.” The key to her success would be her longevity; she can outlast him in this grayscale world. The stain of their troubles has had a greater effect on him. He’s become defined by the job, and she suspects that his Technicolor vision has been rendered ineffective by inactivity. Her ultra-professional façade is her saving grace; it can withstand the grayscale.

“Yeah, same here.”

“This isn’t the world I ordered.” As a woman of direct tendencies, she contemplates the annoyances and sighs in exasperation.

His expression gives little away beneath the yellow lamplight, but he’s got a white-knuckle grip on the white flag. He’s been waving it ever since he started the conversation, and the constant motion of the blinding alabaster cloth is nauseating. “Connie, if anyone deserves to happy, it’s you. And if transferring out of homicide will make you happy, then... I think it’s definitely something you should do.”

She understands the sentiment behind the statement, but his timing could use some work. “I appreciate it, Mike.” Sincerity in her voice, and she dips her head. “It’s been nice working with you.”

“I don’t think nice would be the word I’d use,” he says. “Interesting or a pain in the ass, maybe.”

A microscope is needed to detect the smile and her face, and for a moment she fights back the salty sting in the corner of her eyes. “Both sometimes. So I guess I’ll, uh... see you around?”

“Doubt it. I’ll be too busy single-handedly trying all of our cases.”

She stiffens at his use of the word ‘our’, but it’s a reaction lost. She suspects he’s too deeply mired in his own self-pity to take note of her discomfort, and she brushes it off with the assistance of the shoulder angel. “Good luck. With everything.”

“I hope the change of scenery works for you.” His shoulders slumped as he sighed.

“It has to, Mike,” she says, and her shoulder devil gives her an earnest prod. “The say bad luck runs in threes, and I’ve already got two strikes against me. I can’t take another blow like this one.”

“What blow?” His features mold into an uncommon display of confusion that reminds her that somehow, he’s still human.

“You and Jack,” her voice is accusing, as is the stare she gives to match it. “Backing me into a corner because for once I had the audacity to do what I thought was right instead of staying silent while you violated the legal ethic code? That was, uh, uncalled for.”

“Was it? You almost cost us the case, Connie. Sometimes, ethics and technicalities have to be ignored because –”

“The greater good?” She interrupts and immediately hates the cynicism dripping from her words. It’s bitter and self-righteous, and she gags on the aftertaste.

“Because otherwise justice can’t be done,” he finishes as if she’d never spoken. She wishes she hadn’t; neither of them are cast in a kind light by sharp-tongued arguments. The shoulder devil prods her with a spark of indignity, inspires her to cross her arms like a petulant deity fallen from good favor.

“How was this justice, Mike?”

“How? Because Wayne Grogan killed a man, and last time I checked, that’s what we do – prosecute murderers.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re starting to sound like Jack. And since when are you one to abide by the rules of the game? You’re the one who always steps out of line, Mike. I’d think you of all people would understand why I did what I did.”

“Every time I crossed the line, I did it to procure a conviction, Connie, not justify my own guilty conscience.”

“You have no conscience!” She’s up from her desk now; the shoulder demon’s effectively defeated its angelic counterpart and is kicking at it for good measure. Any remaining notions of civility have been thrown out of the proverbial window, and the defenses are up in full force. She’ll hate herself for it tomorrow, but for now she wants to see this arrogant man knocked down a notch.

“You can’t separate your emotions from the facts,” he retorts, and she’s reminded that he’s always held the upper hand in verbal battles. “Murder is murder, and under the State of New York, it’s illegal, but all you chose to see was a dead baby and disillusioned parents. It’s not that you can’t leave your soul in the umbrella rack – you don’t know how to.”

The pen is mightier than the sword, and words can cut as deep as the blade. Her confidence wavers beneath his verbal assault, though to her surprise she sees no anger in his expression, merely something that looks a lot like disappointment. She turns away and stares out the window at the city lights, unable and unwilling to meet his critical gaze.

“This isn’t just a job, it’s a call to serve justice,” he says quietly. “Sometimes, it’s a battle between morals and ethics, and what we think is right and what the law says is right. Homicide isn’t as clean cut as white collar crimes; nothing is in black and white. They’re no good guys and no bad guys. You’ve been here for three years, Connie; you and I both know how it is.”

“We weren’t the good guys this time around, Mike.” It’s a confession carried on a sigh, and her delicate frame seems to fold in on itself as the tension is freed. The shoulder demon grumbled in submission, and its antithesis strikes a triumphant pose.

“That’s no reason to give up fighting.” Buried in there somewhere is another plea for her to stay, but she doesn’t care to dig for it. This newfound role at empathy and compassion is ill-suited to his demeanor, and she has no desire to hear more of it. He’s standing in the doorway now, one hand on the frame and the other on the doorknob. “But if you can’t do your job, then maybe you’re right – you should transfer to white collar.”

Her moment of decided victory is short lived, and she’s left staring at the floor with nothing but defeat welling in her eyes. The uprising of the downtrodden has been effectively quelled, the instigator cast into disgrace and stripped of dignity, left to re-climb the ladder to her former position. She sighs and manages to meet his gaze.

“See you tomorrow?” He offers, but there’s not a shred of hope or pity in his voice.

“See you tomorrow.”