Title: Expired Ophelia
Author: labyrinthine
E-mail: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com
Rating/Classification: R/vignette, post Box and Coup, Will POV
Summary: Will examines his demons. Or perhaps Will's demons examine him.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: Just a little dalliance between Full Circle updates. Will's been getting such a bad reputation these days; I thought I'd take him out to play and redeem him a bit. This piece is ready for prime time because of Hillary and her killer beta - I promise the 'Will smokes a joint and gets high in the bathroom' scene will happen one of these days, just for you. And thanks to Thorne for the ultimate pick-me-up.
"And the people we've become, well, they've never been the people who we are." -Matchbox Twenty
*****
Will stands alone, facing the hallway. He has worked so hard to reach this location, and now he has arrived: SD-6. A dimly lit corridor, cold and echoing in its stillness, is all that separates him from validation. An endless line disrupted only by five closed doors that he itches to open. He stares down the doors ahead of him, knowing that one of them must contain the answers he so desperately seeks.
He is vaguely aware that he is dreaming, but the elation of finally reaching this destination renders him unable to break from the illusion.
With false bravado, he approaches the first door. Taking a breath, he grasps the handle and flicks his wrist. He pushes the weight and steps in the room.
Peering inside, his eyes fall on an unexpected sight: Daniel Hecht. Danny, the immaculate doctor in his scrubs and white coat, leaning over a gurney, obscuring his view of the body on the cart. They are the only objects in the room; the rest of the interior is obscured in shadow. At first Will believes he has escaped notice, but after a moment Danny turns to face him.
"Why are you pursuing this - haven't you hurt enough people already?" His clipped British accent is more pronounced than Will remembered. Danny himself is more pronounced, more vibrant, than he ever recalled. He looks like a caged tiger ready to pounce, one hand still grasping the gurney as if he's expecting to rebound off its surface.
He doesn't understand, none of this is making sense. The fact that Danny is dead and therefore has no business carrying a conversation escapes his notice - he is far more perplexed with the blatant hostility of his words. "What? I haven't hurt anyone; I'm trying to prevent people from getting hurt."
Danny laughs, a parody of sound that angers his ears. "You have no idea what the consequences of your actions are. You should leave it alone - you should leave ME alone."
"But I'm trying to help you, to bring you justice!"
"I think you have brought quite enough." Danny leans to the side, revealing the gurney behind him, the body of Eloise Kurtz barely recognizable on its surface. Will recoils, stunned by the absolute vividness of the apparition. Did he do this, Will thinks; has he really created this much destruction?
*****
Will rolls over to glance at the clock: 3:47am. He groans, throws himself back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. He could really do without insomnia, he thinks; he wouldn't miss it at all. After a few moments of actively willing his body to sleep he accepts the futility of the action and drags himself out of bed, walking towards the couch and tv.
Restful sleep has been eluding him for weeks. At first he just blamed it on an overactive mind, trying to piece together fragments for this investigation, but now it doesn't make a difference what he's thinking - he just can't sleep more than a few hours at a time. And recently he's starting having dreams: vivid, continuous dreams that he can't remember while awake aside from a vague feeling of disquietude. He wakes from his nightmares no more rested than when he first fell asleep; it is becoming increasingly difficult to stay alert when he actually is awake. Thankfully not many people have caught on, or so he hopes.
Bare feet padding across the room, he unconsciously makes a path to the corner window and lifts the blinds, just a hair. He doesn't even know what he's looking for - suspicious activity? Like he's cognizant enough at this hour to make sense of anything. He keeps thinking the checking will put his racing mind at ease, but it only serves to make him question if he has finally cracked for good.
Will turns from the window and settles in on the couch. Running a hand through what's left of his hair - he and the barber seem to have differing views of what constitutes a trim - he tries to shake off his ubiquitous nervousness. He's never been a morning person, but lately that pinpoints exactly how he's felt; like he is perpetually just waking up and can't let go of that first sleepy disorientation.
He wishes he had someone to call. His apartment is full of distractions when he actually needs to accomplish work, but he can find nothing to hold his attention in exhausted state. He would love to talk, to vent to a sympathetic ear, but he has no one for which to turn. Not just now - it is, after all, after 3am - but at all, he doesn't have anyone willing to listen to him, the way he wants to be understood. It's probably better that way, he thinks, not to drag anyone else into the punishment that has become his life.
Still, he wants so badly for someone to understand, to make the demons go away for just a little while. He has always prided himself on his independence, but lately he fears he can't do this on his own.
*****
Shaken but determined, Will strides toward the second entranceway. The door is familiar and opens easily, revealing the comfortable surroundings of Francie and Syd's home. The rooms are brightly lit, almost harshly so. The soft music he is accustomed to in the background is pumping; everything around him seems in extreme. "Anyone here?" he calls out. Wandering the rooms, he feels as if he's being watched, though by all accounts the house is deserted.
Suddenly Will turns around to see Francie make her way through the kitchen vestibule, Charlie behind her in the wings. They waste no time advancing towards him, encroaching.
Francie cuts a beeline through his personal space, immediately asserting herself. "So, you gonna kiss Syd again?" Her voice is high, shrill, and booming. Disarming.
Charlie leans towards his other side. Tauntingly, "Third time the charm, maybe?"
Will's startled protests fall on deaf ears and the two of them surround him, suffocating. Predatory, vultures waiting for the kill. Francie wastes no time continuing the ruse. "Syd told me you were HORRIBLE! That you had, like, chapped lips. If you're going to go for it, I mean, not that you would have a chance in hell-"
He shifts away, attempting to break free of their confining hold, and glimpses Sydney standing in the far corner of the room, staring. He had no idea she was watching - how could she just let this go on without a single protest? Their eyes meet and she easily holds his gaze with…disgust? He tries to move towards her but she sends him a dismissive glance, and after a moment turns her back away.
Francie and Charlie are still fluttering, but Will no longer notices the taunts of his friends. In a room of extremes, he is left alone.
*****
There is something strangely cathartic about biking twenty miles and winding up absolutely nowhere. Lack of a destination in general is becoming all too familiar, Will thinks, as he steps off the stationary bike and collapses on a nearby bench. He doesn't know why he pushed so hard today; going to the gym is something he does to blow off a little steam, not with the singular goal of actually getting in shape. He'll exercise enough to get his mind off whatever's bothering him at the time, then leave. This is the first time he's really exerted himself to his limit - and his mind is just as cluttered as it was when he first stepped on the bike. He thinks this development is not a good sign in the grand scheme of things.
The gym is bustling, unusually full for an early afternoon. If he squints just a bit, the room appears out of focus; it's as if the people and machines are creating something singular, organic, larger then the sum of their parts. There must be some security in belonging to such a collective, Will considers. He wouldn't know.
Feeling irrationally trapped, Will picks up his water bottle and exits the gym, seeking fresh air. He's been craving open spaces; longing for sweeping landscapes with a thousand different exit routes. Not that he actually plans or expects to need a quick exit from any given location - he just relishes the piece of mind knowing the option is there. Just in case.
You never know when you might need to run and hide.
*****
The third door is cracked open, inviting, waiting for him to enter. He discovers an interrogation room; a table, a single chair, the room devoid of any extraneous items. Will contemplates the incredible bareness of this room in comparison to the fraudulent excess of the last when his thoughts are interrupted by the familiar mechanized voice, projected unseen.
"Sit."
"Who are you?" False bravado. He is growing tired of these games.
"You have disappointed us."
"Show yourself - if you're so mighty, why won't you show your face?" He wants answers, concrete facts; he is convinced they must be here, but he doubts he will learn anything from this anonymous voice.
"You are in no position to make demands."
"I don't-"
Will's retort is eclipsed by the amplitude of the voice, becoming more insistent. "Be quiet - we have had enough of your antics. You were a mistake. You are no reporter." The voice increases in speed and pitch. "You will never discover the truth."
As if a switch had been flipped, the sound abruptly cuts off and he is left in the room, surrounded only by silence. Will takes a breath, attempts to regroup. It's just as well the confrontation is over - he had no words to respond.
*****
Spring cleaning, Will thinks. Apprising the chaotic scene that is his workspace in the bustling newsroom, his eyes are drawn to the towering piles of paperwork, the precariously balanced field notes and audio tapes and supplies that litter his desk. No wonder he can't seem to shake off this story; it's literally buried underneath every current item he's working on. Armed with the hallway trashcan and a box of manila file folders, he sets to work.
A fresh start. Hoping that removing visible traces of this mess will render it benign.
An hour later the desk is clean and, better yet, he has found notes from half a dozen long-forgotten pieces that still hold enough merit to be written. He smiles at the thought of a nice, ordinary, normal afternoon writing nice, ordinary, normal features.
The irony of this is not lost on Will. He recalls how enthusiastic he was when he first landed this job, with dreams of exposes and cover stories and Pulitzer-worthy investigative pieces. He wanted to be the reporter who landed the big stories, the journalist who brought the truth to light when others had dismissed its existence.
He would be happy to fly under the radar the rest of his life if it would mean an end to this nightmare.
Thinking back to when he first latched on to investigating Danny's death, it unnerves him how cavalier he initially felt about the whole situation. Even when things started to develop, when he found the pin in Eloise Kurtz's car…he can't believe how flippant he had behaved. That he actually showed it to Francie, talked into it; he wishes so badly that he could take it all back. He has lost all control of the circumstances that he so blindly believed were under his command, and now he can think of no way to extract himself from this predicament and return to any semblance of a normal life.
He wishes he had someone to bounce ideas off of; when he interrupted Francie and her table arrangements earlier in the week he knew instantly it was a mistake, that not only were her thoughts elsewhere but that she would be unable to help him reach a solution. In a perfect world he would ask Syd for help, but he has little desire to drag her into this when she has enough on her mind as it is.
He just wants a way out.
*****
Sydney. He walks with no small amount of trepidation through the fourth door to stand before her. A cursory glance at his surrounds indicates they are alone, with no distractions or physical obstacles, just a circle of light surrounding them with the rest of the room cast in dark shadow. She looks lovely to him, a vision in a worn tank top and ratty jeans. She all but glows in front of him, but then, she is perpetually illuminated in his eyes. For a moment, he feels calmer just standing with her.
"Why would I ever want you near me?" She breaks through his reverie with a stinging delivery. As if she can read his thoughts, and squash them in one blow. "All you've done is cause me pain."
"Are you kidding?" Will may not entirely understand what's going on, but he's cognizant enough to defend himself. Defiantly, "God Syd, I love you."
"Are you waiting for me to love you back?" She spits that out at him, almost hauntingly. Alarmed, he takes a step back; this can't be his Sydney.
"I'm not your Sydney - I'll never be your Sydney." She steps closer, almost menacing. "You know why I hang around you? You make me LAUGH. You make me feel better about myself." She moves closer still, and her presence is imposing, confining. "Come on Will, look at yourself. You have a mediocre job, you dress like a tramp, you sleep with your assistant who's like half your age - you obviously can't keep a secret - I'd be AFRAID to be with you. Look at yourself."
He steps away from himself to view how he must appear through her eyes, and recoils at the horrendous caricature she paints him as. Sydney continues, unabated, "You're such a fool, Will. I don't even know why you bother!"
This time, she doesn't turn her back to him but stands firm, glowing just as radiantly as ever, as he is thrust deeper into a shadowy corner. Everybody has faults, but his put on display in such a manner by the one person he hoped would never notice them, is too much for him to bear.
*****
He finds the track deserted. Perfectly understandable, he thinks, considering dusk fell well over an hour ago and normal, sane people would be at home with family or out with friends instead of running in a circle in the dark. The track itself is still illuminated; the white reflective tape lane markers almost hurt his eyes with their bright intensity. Slowly he walks onto the track, feeling the gritty surface grip his shoes; friction trying to slow him down.
Will has fond memories of this track. Winning heats in high school, his brief collegiate career before a pulled hamstring left him off the circuit.
He has never beat Sydney on this track. Even if he was back in competitive form, he thinks he would still fall behind her. She always runs ahead; he is perpetually catching up. Even when they run in tandem he feels she's just holding back for his sake.
He makes his way off the track, leaving it behind to climb the bleachers. Reaching the last stand, he sits down and apprises the view. From this vantage he can see the track in its entirety, one continuous, uninterrupted oval. It is beautiful in its symmetry, and Will wishes his life could be so perfectly structured. That he could follow his designated lane around the track, on a straight path towards his goals with no questions or hesitations or deviations.
But there is no straight path, he realizes. On the track, your lane brings you right back to your starting point. Theoretical physics would equate this with no work being performed whatsoever. Just as disastrous a conclusion, he thinks, as following a story with no end.
He feels he has been running in circles, expending energy with no destination.
Perhaps Sydney has the right idea, leaving him in her tracks.
He fears his life has run so off-course that he will never find his way back again.
*****
And now, the end. Process of elimination dictates that the answers he so desperately craves must lie beyond this fifth door. Not only the truth behind SD-6, but behind himself, why these previous doors have cast him in such an unforgiving light. He turns the handle and enters the room in one fluid motion.
The space is expansive, empty, and he realizes he is alone in the room. Will steps in farther, examining corners, looking for an object, a sound, anything. The door shuts behind him and hears a deadbolt lock in place. Without turning around or testing, he knows he is confined inside with no exit. Trapped, alone, looking for answers and finding none.
Not caring if he is under surveillance, oblivious to the expanse surrounding him, Will retreats to a corner. His back hitting the wall, he slides to the ground and covers his head with his hands. Drawing his limbs closer to his body he curls up, unconsciously making himself a more compact target. It is too much; it is all too much.
Not moving a muscle, Will waits for the nightmare to end.
*****
Expired Ophelia
Elabyrinthine@yahoo.com
"You have Will think such deep thoughts. Thoughts he will never, ever think." -Hil 2/24