Orig. Drabble: Anthony Munro

TITLE: Growing Up
CHARACTER: Anthony Munro
RATING: PG

DISCLAIMER: All my own; my precious Anthony!

A/N: I'm not actually all too fond of this, but post and don't look back, right? Plus, I have been severely neglecting my baby for some time now, so I thought I'd better give him some attention before he rusts...



It's funny that when you're growing up and people ask you what you want to do with your life, as if at the age of five you'd somehow have unending insight into your own personal future. It's like they only do it to see how long you stick to one answer, or just have a good long laugh at your expense: "Awe, how sweet! Do you hear that, honey? He wants to be a fireman," they might say while you tussle with your stuffed Dalmatian on the floor.

Of course you don't even know what firemen do. To a child's eye, all they do is drive about in big red trucks that make "weeoo" sounds as they race down the street. It makes funny noises, and you liked funny noises, because, well, they were fun to make, weren't they? And that's usually enough to tempt you.

So, my point is, there's never really any purpose behind a child's answer to the question, is there? Never a solid, intentional thought that lead to the decision. That's why when I see myself here, now, in my office with a title at my door in gold stating "Anthony Munro, Forensic Psychologist," a fluidity of pride rushes through me, gives me a kick and a drive, and I can sleep well at night knowing I've accomplished something I've been meaning to do since I was twelve years old; a life time's accomplishment.

Though it's not something people understand when I tell them. They don't get how I could have possibly known what I wanted to do for so long. But the question isn't really even how I chose the profession, but why.

See, but the "why" is the one thing I don't actually tell people. It's the one thing I hide from my folks, the one thing I can almost, but not quite, hide from myself. My point is, how often is it where you can stand up and honestly say that the single most reason you became a criminal psychologist is because of your closest friend? Well, not often, I can tell you, and that's personal experience talking.

Rupert Wembley: first class Sociopath and my best mate of twenty-odd years; still no closer to being understood than when his first dead body turned up on my doorstep like something the cat dragged in. He's complicated, impetuous, yet structured and deliberate. I'm trying; trying hard to understand him, and even harder to realise where it was that he went so wrong, but it all leads back to me: back to where I followed….

That is why I wont give up. I can't give up, he's my weakness, my kryptonite, and he's dragging me down slowly. Now it's my dream, my motivation- all I can think about, and frankly, I'm far too stubborn to be the first to back down. I can wait twenty more years if I have to, forty more if I need the time; after all, it's not every day you know what the hell you're doing with your life, and I may as well use it to my advantage while I still can.

Yes, I've always known what I've wanted to do with my life, ever since I was twelve years old. The only thing left to do now, it seems, is to wait. And I have all the time in the world.