Title: Admitting One's Destiny
Author: Faline
Rating: R
Timeline/Spoilers: 2.07 Patriots and Tyrants
Character: Beck-centric, Ensemble, Beck/Heather
Summary: What do you do when the ideals you've built your life around come crashing down? Inspired by 'The Hand That Feeds' by NIN
iAuthor's Note: While no virgin to fanfiction, I am a Jericho newb. I've been an avid supporter of the show for years but never on-line and certainly never thought to try the fanfic, which I've kicked myself for repeatedly.
I saw a lot of episodes out of order and I completely missed the whole Heather/Jake ship until I was pretty much done with Season One. I think I blame my lack of attention to not really enjoying the ship as much as I could. Instead I find myself completely infatuated with the Beck/Heather report.
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think. Like I said, Jericho fic is new to me still so I'm not completely in tune with the community yet./i
bAdmitting One's Destiny/b
It's a hot, rolling anger that bubbles in her eyes. Disdain. Hatred isn't the right word, but it works right now.
"You refuse to open your eyes and see it!"
"My eyes are open."
"No, they aren't. And everyone in this town is suffering for it." She's hurt. Trust is a hard thing to earn; easy to lose and convoluted at best in these times. And hers has been stretched.
The pleading in her eyes tells you that she still wants to believe in you. But damn if thinking about her comments from yesterday don't still hurt. i'She compared me to scum. A horrible man.'/i
Right now it's more than you can bear. "Lieutenant, this woman is under arrest. Get her out of here."
Margrave walks in, turning Heather around and leading her away by the shoulders. His lanky gait is awkward behind her irritated steps and you sink back against your desk. The confrontation has made you mad.
Indignant.
Livid isn't the right word but it'll work for now.
You want to punch something, bad. Beat the fuck out of Robert Hawkins for the shit storm he's put you in along with Valente. It's his orders that are causing this uprising. It's his fault this whole mess even exists. His fault.
Trust is so easy to break and so hard to get back.
Taking a seat behind your desk, your elbows get propped up and you start to think. This has been a fuck all assignment. From the beginning, with the double mission of peacekeeping and terrorist hunting, it's felt more like orders on top or orders on top or orders than an effort for the greater good.
And then Hawkins showed up, waving his badge in your face and demanding you stop impeding his investigation.
It was that moment when he first planted that seed of doubt in your head when it all started going down hill.
A week. And your belief in your country had begun to dissipate. Unconditional devotion isn't exactly your failing but its close enough.
The noises of the office mean nothing in your storm of thought but you do hear the boots approaching, the 'Sir' coming from the door and Maris is asking for your signature on Hawkins' inventory.
A week ago you'd have signed it without a second thought. Today, the wounded look of betrayal on Heather's face makes you pause.
Maris is probably displeased about having his carefully inventoried work torn apart. J & R like their organization. But, you need to know.
You need to know more than you need air right now. You need it more than Heather's trust. You need it more than anything. Because knowing will relieve this pressure in your chest. This weight of doubt that causes you to second guess everything you've done with yourself up to this point in your entire life.
He returns with the box and you pull it apart. Pull out the laptop and boot it up. The screen blinks on; Hawkins was in the middle of a file.
Your eyes start to scan the page.
Devastating horror isn't quite the way you would normally describe this feeling but the numb working it's way from your chest outwards is a pretty fucking fantastic way to put it at this very moment.
Heather's eyes. She hadn't even seen the evident and she knew. She could see.
What you've done; you are a terrible person doing terrible things for a country that shouldn't exist and by every right will kill everything you know and love about the country you signed up to protect.
Head swimming and vision blurring at the edges, you close the first document and browse the main folder. A title catches your eye. 'DOA'
Two clicks and a list pops up in a spreadsheet. The top is sectioned; numbered, name, location, cause of death, date, known relatives.
With fingers worn cold by fear, his finger drags down the miniscule scroll bar to the bottom of the list to find a number ranging somewhere in the two hundred million range.
Flashes of towns and cities across the country parade in front of your eyes and you scroll back up through the list. You're looking at every casualty of the attacks and, judging from the dates, every war related casualty afterwards.
Mouse hovering over the name tag, you hold your breath and click. You scroll.
And the world ceases to exist around you as two names arrive on your screen. Mallory and Fay Beck. Dead 11/21/06. Tuscan. Cause of Death, Unknown. Your name, in the very last column, the one for known relatives, breaks whatever passed as your heart in half.
And the world around you fades away.
It would be foolish to say you passed out. Fainted.
Gave up is more like it. That's a pretty damned fine descriptor. Coming to with a gasp the world tilts dangerously on its axis and the names still burn on the screen. Your finger hits the mouse and window closes, bringing the list of folders back to the forefront.
You've been a bad man.
And now your family is dead. Killed by the government you've been killing for.
Ironic is really the only good way to describe it.
