Work Text:
Title: - Crushed
Author: - Katt
E-mail: - kattanon@hotmail.com
Rating: - PG
Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know.
Archive: - Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive
Disclaimer: - I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.
Crushed.
Sometimes it seemed like a huge weight that slowly increased day by day, pushing down on him, suffocating him, burying him. Past, present, future all merged together into a dark shadowy mass of confusion. Each becoming identical, inter-changeable --- nothing would ever change. The inevitability of it all was what depressed him most. No matter how hard he tried, how hard he worked, how much he sacrificed, he was destined for failure. He always fell short. His English Literature teacher back in high school had been right he'd "...never fulfilled his potential."
Still he tried though, either too stupid, or too stubborn to admit defeat. However, it all seemed to him to be a colossal waste of time. What did he achieve? Innocents still died, got hurt, he couldn't stop that. Remove one monster from the streets and there was always another to take their place. It was like natural selection, the survival of the fittest, or in this case the most depraved and evil. He still tried though. Still threw himself into each case. Something was lacking inside him though, a drive, a fire, that had once burned within him, was gone. Now he went through the motions, made the right noises, kept his head down.
Kind of summed up his whole life really, not just his work. Just dragging himself out of bed some mornings seemed to be a major achievement. He'd lie there watching the night sky giving way to another dawn, and he'd wish it could remain the deepest, darkest night forever. He wished he could lie there unmoving, barely breathing, forever. Night would flee though, and the reds and oranges of dawn would streak across the sky. He thought he'd found the sight beautiful once, but now it looked washed out and drab, the whole world faded and thread-bare. The urge to pull the covers up over his head, close his eyes and cocoon himself away from the world would pass through him, and he'd hesitate, on the verge of doing just that, before reality would slam into this mind, and he'd drag himself from his bed.
It wasn't as if his bed, his slumber, was a refuge anyway. So many long, tortured nights spent wishing for sleep and yet dreading it. His body would yearn for rest, but his soul would recoil from the visions he'd be supplied with by his sub-conscious in his dreams. When he was awake he concentrated very hard on keeping everything bottled up. Memories, pain, disappointments, betrayals, all seethed and howled in the darkest recesses of his mind, but he turned away from them. He kidded himself that he wasn't affected by them, that he hadn't been shaped by them, but he knew that wasn't true. He was the person his experiences had made him, and considering some of the things that howled away inside his mind that wasn't a comforting thought.
He thought about death sometimes, not in an abstract "one day" sense, but in an unemotional, cold, clinical way, which he knew, on an intellectual level, should probably worry him. Suicide sometimes took on a comforting guise. An escape from the grey existence he was subjected to. He would plan it all out in his mind. How he'd do it, what he'd write in his suicide note, how he'd like his funeral to be, and he'd wonder who'd really care. He'd be forgotten in six months, he knew it. It would be as if he'd never existed and maybe that would be a good thing --- he wasn't sure.
Maybe though he wouldn't have to go to such extremes, such finality. Thousands of people disappear every day. Not in a dramatic, abducted by a mad man kind of way, but in quiet, fading away from everything. Leaving behind their old lives. Occasionally he'd be driving to work and he'd come to an inter-section and the thought of not turning off towards Farmington, but heading out towards the Pacific Highway instead, would wonder into his mind. Just drive. No destination, no plan, living only in the moment. At least that way he might be remembered by those he left behind, a mystery tended to linger in the mind. He wondered how far he could go. How would he live? He'd change his identity, start a new life, a fresh, clean life far from Los Angeles. Of course it was foolish to think he could escape. If he suffered a head injury, suffered from amnesia, then maybe he could become someone new, but as it was he knew he was doomed to repeat all his mistakes no matter where he lived, or what he called himself.
"Penny for your thoughts"
Claudette's voice brought him back to the present. The sights and sounds from the squad room suddenly snapping into focus. Confused he looked up at her, a frown wrinkling his brow.
"What?"
"You were miles away." Claudette smiled at him. "I just wondered what you were thinking about."
"Oh nothing...nothing important." He replied.
He smiled back at his partner. He'd learned how to make his muscles pull up the corners of his mouth into the appropriate facial expression a long, long time ago. He focused on her and ignored the howls that echoed through his mind.
Claudette studied him for a moment, and not for the first time, he found himself wondering if she could sometimes hear the distant echo of the dark things that stalked his sub-conscious. Not for the first time he found himself having to look away from those warm, brown eyes before they saw through his disguise, before they saw the hollow, defiled, contaminated thing that he saw everytime he looked in the mirror.
"Are you okay?" Claudette asked him quietly.
He felt his heart clench. Maybe she really cared. Maybe he should tell her, let all his neurosis and insecurities spill out. He imagined the pity, the disgust on her face if he did, and barely managed to repress the shudder that image elicited in him.
"I'm fine." He assured her. "Just tired."
"Well it's been a long day. How about we get something to eat together before heading home?" Claudette asked him.
Although part of him wanted the warmth of her company, another part shied away from the thought of those perceptive eyes watching him. Shaking his head he waved a hand in the direction of the open files on his desk.
"I'd love to," he told her and nearly winced at the lie. "But I'll have to take a rain check...paperwork." He even made a show of rolling his eyes in exasperation, as if it was an inconvenience instead of an excuse.
Claudette sounded slightly unsure as she replied,
"Well...if you're sure you're alright."
"I told you I'm fine. Don't fuss Claudette."
He heard the trace of hurt in her voice, and felt guilty, as she said,
"Fine, fine I'll leave you to it then."
He didn't dare look up at her, he knew his emotions were raw, he knew his eyes would betray him. Instead he waved a hand at her,
"Yeah, see you tomorrow."
Staring, unseeing, at the pages in front of him he reached out with his senses waiting for her to leave. His whole body was tense as he detected her scrutiny, her eyes like lasers burning their way into the back of his head. Finally he heard her sigh softly,
"Yeah, see you tomorrow. Don't work too late."
He waved in her direction, and didn't relax until he sensed her moving away from him.
Reaching up he rubbed his tired eyes, Claudette had been right it had been a long day. He wondered if he should follow her example and head home, but quickly dismissed the thought. At least here there was life, noise, colour. At home there was only grey silence waiting to enshroud him, he shivered at the thought. Besides at least here there was a point to going through the motions, to pretending to be a person. Alone, at home, that need was gone, he would lose his focus, and the darkness would crowd in on him, crushing him with its weight.