okay, this came after catching the rerun last night (I hadn't before seen that episode) and being struck by the callousness of that first scene, with Danny Mac and Peyton. The look on Danny's face struck me, hell, the whole scene was painful. So, with the darker thoughts in mind, I popped this drabble out; it takes place after Snow Day, so some slight spoilers, but it mostly just sums up things so far. I know that the writers are giving Danny some hope now, his relationship with Lindsey as testament, but it still seems like there is a lot of pain still within him, that hasn't been resolved yet. So, here this is, I hope you'all like. A little dark, be warned.
I'm not sure about the title.
Ghost
He exited the elevator, silent steps treading down barely lit passageways.
He felt like a spirit tresspasser, intruding where he no longer belonged.
The halls of the building seemed haunted now, filled with the ghosts and echoes of his past, following like shadows as he walked, pushing past the plastic barriers of repair like the images in his mind.
After the explosion that lab had been closed, all work sent to other stations in the city, and they had been allowed to recuperate if they had wanted. Some followed the case load, unwilling to rest, others had needed the time to heal.
He wasn't sure what he needed.
And so, late or early, when the construction workers had long gone home, he walked the lab, like one of the ghost in his thoughts.
He bypasses the lockers, named and plated, meaningless in these hours when identity doesn't exist.
He hated that Aiden had hardly been here before she was gone, that he couldn't hear the resonant of her laugh in the labs, that Lindsey's softer and more hesitant tones covered all of the presence he longed for.
He hated how they had all forgotten her, his dark lady, until death brought her back to their minds. He hates how easily she was replaced. But that isn't Lindsey's fault.
He doesn't hate Lindsey for that.
He hates that she fills a place at all, even in him, that she was able to arrive and fit without problem. That she was accepted, even by him. That she was welcome and cared for and loved, even by him.
He hates that she fits so well here, while he doesn't. Not anymore. If he ever did.
He walks on.
Turning a corridor brought him towards Mac office, more vacant then not now, and long since empty. Mac was a continent away, so far, but he knew that the space was made wider by harsh spoken words and long past concessions. It reeked to him of Peyton now, their rendezvous, and he is sickened to think that he had played so well, by them all, that he hadn't known until it was shoved in his face, like an afterthought.
Invisible until needed.
But then, he had stopped trying to please them long ago.
They aren't the reason he does this job.
The floors are new, white, and he wants to scuff them; leave some reminder of his presence, something that will tell them that he was here.
He knows that's wrong.
He flexes his hand and the fingers creak.
They barely hurt anymore.
He knows that this is bad, that it's most likely PTS, that he needs help, that retracing the past leads nowhere.
But he can't stop.
He understands the ones who cut now; it's about bleeding to know you still exist; this is his knife, this walk in the witching hour, cutting pieces of his memories away until there is nothing.
He knows that he'll keep doing this, as no one else sees.
And he wonders what he'll do when he's dissected all of himself.
He wonders what will be left.
He longs for that next step.
But until then, he'll keep retracing the steps, walking dissertated paths to nowhere.
In hopes that soon they'll lead him somewhere.