He watched him, silently, not really looking for anything to say.
The clock ticked like a bomb, probably the only thing willing to cut through the silence.
Doug counted them, the ticking. He wasn't sure why. Maybe to keep his brain occupied, so it was just a little--a little--less painful to watch his chest rise and fall. His back was against the couch, one leg out in front of him, the other pulled up halfway to his chest. His head was ducked in his sleep, his clothes still reeking of liquor and...something else. Of course, Dooug knew what it was, but it was better for him--as a cop--not to think about it. Then, he'd be morally obligated to arrest the son of a bitch, and he really didn't have the heart.
Amy died a week before Valentine's day, Doug realized.
It started small, with minor obsession. Stealing the tape, watching it like it held the secrets to life. 3.3 seconds, he constantly reminded them, is how long he had to do something. Really, no one would have in the situation, but Thomas Hanson didn't seem believe it.
Even after they caught the guy, he wouldn't let up. He pushed them away, all of them, so quickly they hardly understood what was happening.
One day, maybe a bit after Valentine's day, Doug went to his apartment. He had to kick open the door. Tom had been sprawled on the couch, a half empty bottle of God knows what clenched in his hands. Doug really hadn't known what to make of it. He sat down, and listened to Tom mumble in his drunken stupor, telling him he can leave, that he was fine. That he should leave, that he should go fuck himself. He stayed, though, letting his partner mumble incoherently to whatever until he fell asleep.
They didn't know something was wrong--really wrong--until he came into work one day, his eyes glazed over, his speech slurred, walking like he was a blind man.
Ioki had seen him first, hid him in the bathroom and came running to Doug and Judy. They argued about it, hissing at each other at a dark end of the chapel. It was illegal, Judy had said, we're cops, we have to report it. Ioki had went on about how it probably wouldn't happen again, it's a ruff time for him, why ruin his life for one slip up?
That was the thing with playing kiddie cop, Doug thought, you knew the right places to get the wrong stuff.
Judy eventually swore not to tell, and the three helped loaded Tom into Doug's car. He dropped him off at his apartment, watching him, probably to make sure he didn't stop breathing or something. After a few hours, he left him there, going back to his own place, telling himself it wouldn't happen again.
The static of the TV was the only thing illuminating the room, casting shadows over empty cans, take out cartons, cigerette butts. It was like a movie, to Doug, that image you get of a guy before he's chopped to pieces by some physcho. More frightening, to see someone, how normal they are, how much they don't deserve what you know they're gonna get, but they do anyway. It was scarier here, though. Because this was real, this was how it was, how it's going to be. This is what tragedy had done to people--to him--turned one of the best cops into a doped out, cynical zombie who only talked in bitter retorts.
Of course, the kid had seen to much. He'd seen more of the wrong side then anyone else, even Doug, and now, he just needed it to stop. This was, apparently, the second best way.
Doug had called Judy before, because he thought Tom was dead when he came in. She walked through the door, into the living room, and watched. She said something, but Doug didn't hear it. He was in a crouch, watching too. Waiting for some light to shine down on him, to tell him what to do, for some divine power to come and show him the answers.
"He can't go on like this." Judy whispered, like she too were afraid to break the silence.
Yes he can, Doug thought, he's a grown-fucking-man. If he wants to destroy his life, let him.
He still smelled it, the whatever it was, sticking to his clothes like a demented sort of glue.
Let him, Doug thought, just let him.
When he got to his feet, his partner was mumbling things, cursing someone, anyone. Telling him to fuck off, leave him alone, 3.3 goddamn seconds, whatever. He couldn't listen, so he inched out the door, leaving Judy sobbing quietly by the couch.
A/N This. Is. A. Oneshot.