Title: We Don't Fit.

Author: sangga

Email: sangga55@hotmail.com

Summary: "We don't fit, but then we do." A philosophy of partnership.

Rating: M

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Don't own, not mine, go Dick.

Archive: Go sick, just mail me.

Note: Apologies to jael, for devolving J - meh, couldn't help myself! This one's for my beloved – honey, we don't fit either. But then we do.

We Don't Fit

We don't fit, but then we do.

People look from her, to me, to her again, searching for clues, trying to figure it all out. They watch us work a scene, work a suspect – watch the way we walk around, in different corners of the room, our circles of movement and action bumping against each other occasionally. I'm reminded of osmosis. Two bubbles of substance, each with its own membrane – when they slide against each other, transference occurs. It's really a very simple chemical process.

We don't fit, but sometimes I notice how our understandings collide. Maybe 'collide' isn't the word I'm looking for. I'm trying to think of a word that carries less implied violence – maybe 'correspond'. We correspond sometimes. Usually. I know, it makes us sound like we send letters or emails to each other, and sometimes we do that too, but it's more about a certain harmonizing. I say something, and then she picks up the thread. She speaks, and I continue after her with the next relevant section of the conversation. It's not like we finish each others' sentences or anything. I mean, she's more aggressive than me, you notice that with suspects – I lead them down the winding path a while and then she butts in with a blatant question, a pointed reference. And it always works a treat. It's complementary. It's just a shorthand we picked up somewhere along the line.

And of course, we tolerate each other. If I stare off into space or ramble occasionally she leaves me alone, which is nice. It's nice to have that margin, that elbowroom, because I need that. And when she gets that look, like she wants to pummel something because she's frustrated, or irritated by the world in general, then I can, y'know, joke her out of it. Sometimes. Well, sometimes she just needs to pummel something. So then I can offer to do her DD5 papers while she goes down to the gym or the firing range. Paperwork doesn't bother me.

We don't fit, but I'm never surprised by how well we work together. Some people are, I know. She's all practical and logical thinking and that nasal twang, and I'm…I don't know, weird, I guess. Ah, I'm not weird. Other people are weird. I just go with my instincts, and there's a logic to that. Like music. Like a concerto – it may not always have a strict tempo, but there's a rhythm. Not everyone gets the distinction. The captain looks at me sometimes like I've got two heads, but then the captain listens to country and western.

She never looks at me like I've got two heads, which is nice. And when I come out with something off the wall, she can follow the drift. I think I know why. I checked the CDs on her desk – everything from Delibes to Run DMC. Eclecticism is always an asset, but that's just my opinion.

We don't fit, but then we do. She's not too squeamish, I like that. I think squeamishness is immaterial. You can't do what we do and be squeamish, it just doesn't work. I mean, I like to poke at things, I'm very hands-on. I like tangibility. There's blood and there's gore, and you shouldn't detach from that, that's what we are, that's real. You need to stay focussed on the real to do this job effectively. The reality is the truth. And she's a bloodhound for the truth. I like that. I like that she's so honest.

We don't fit, but I'm reminded of symbiosis. There's just not a lot of people that we both feel completely comfortable around. I'm too weird, she's too raw. At least when we're together we can relax. If I start over-intellectualizing she can tell me to, y'know, shut up. I can laugh at her corpse jokes. And neither of us takes particularly well to authority, so that's a point of confluence.

But we don't fit, not all the time. Sometimes we argue. It's usually about whether Mrs So-and-so did it for the money or because of the mistress, or why I'm a bastard to Ron Carver all the time, or why I won't drive, or her cynicism, or that pragmatic stubborn streak she has. Sometimes we just stare at each other. Fuming. Confused. A basic lack of transference. Like a married couple, we have a peculiar sense of loyalty – we never fight in front of other people. With other people we always tend to maintain this veneer of mutual agreement. She says it reminds her of her parents, not wanting to argue in front of the kids.

It makes sense, the arguing. I mean, in a lot of ways we're really very dissimilar. She's hard-edged, I'm flexible. She's blunt, I'm polite. She's appropriately social, I'm not. She's neat, I'm…obsessive about certain things, but that doesn't equate to neat.

She reads detective novels and autobiographies. I read classics and non-fiction.

She likes action movies. I like foreign films.

She likes Italian. I like Italian shoes.

She takes hers black, two sugars. I have lots of cream.

She's a morning person. I hate morning people, they make me feel lazy for wanting to stay in bed until 3pm.

The list goes on and on. Frankly, it's pretty amazing that we agree at all. We're even physically completely different. I'm the tallest person I know, and she's the shortest. She's skinny and I'm solid. She' s right-handed and I'm a lefty. Like I said, we don't fit.

We don't fit, but then we do. It's bizarre. I'm not even attracted to small women, but her head fits in directly under my chin. She says that usually she doesn't go for chest hair, but she likes mine. My arms can wrap all the way around her. Her hip sits perfectly aligned with the groove of my pelvis.

Neither of us hogs the covers. And neither of us likes to hold hands.

Finis