My first attempt at a "The Bill" fiction. I couldn't quite grasp an ending but I tried. Be gentle :-P! Set during ep 422 (I think it was).
" Hold your hands out"
Mickey obeyed dutifully, only fleeting bewilderment grazing his features at Phil's request.
" Well at least you made some attempt to fight back"
It's a shame you didn't put up much of a fight the first time.
Mickey stiffened as the memory broke through the barriers he had spent the last three years painstakingly creating.
The shadows were flickering before his mind's eye, he could feel the pressure mounting. He couldn't sit here and let them overpower him.
" What?" he snapped, forcing the enquiry through clenched teeth, slivers of green ablaze with fury.
" It was a joke Mickey", Phil assured him quietly. A direct nod to the mauve bruise stark against Mickey's pallid flesh, the result of the fight the night before.
A breath of relief escaped him, but it died as quickly as it had came. Chest taut and burning as he caught Phil's sickening glance of pity. The discomfort that always radiated from those who knew never failed to shame him.
Stumbling Mickey rived himself from his seat, left his desk to absorb Phil's concerned call.
He locked himself away in the toilets, vented his frustration by meshing his fists against the flimsy cubicle. Each dull thud sending a thrill through his knuckles, hands punishing the inanimate wood for daring to resist his rage, a grunt of dismay that the hard surface could not hurt the way he did.
Spent he sank to the floor, tiles cold beneath him as he sat, breathing shallow as he collected himself, body ragged against the porcelain.
I'll always have something over you Mickey.
Head smacked against the confines of the cubicle as Mickey screwed his face up tight against the memories that were strengthening, against the tears that were threatening to birth.
Beads of sweat broke across his brow as he inhaled shakily, hands wrapped tightly around his knees, fingernails digging into the skin with the intensity of his clutch.
All it had taken was one journalist. One stupid reporter digging up a past that needed to remain buried. That he'd wanted to remain buried.
One weighted question and he was right back in the warehouse.
The sight, the smell, the touch.
The pain.
The unresolvable fear.
All of it was back.
Surely there's a criminal that's affected you more than others.
Eyes open as the question flared, encircled its torturous pathway as it had done ever since the reporter had dared to voice the curiosity aloud. The world was slanted to his gaze as Mickey tilted his head to bathe in the sparse light above.
Delaney hadn't affected him. He'd consumed him.
He'd reduced him to nothing more than a victim and three years later he still couldn't find the person that was drowning beneath the label.
His heart jolted as the door creaked, scrambling to his feet he grasped for the chain, the roar of the cistern doing nothing to calm his nerves. He emerged quickly.
" Mickey? You alright?"
Mickey sought the sink nervously as he washed his hands, preferring to fixate his sight on skin and soap than sympathy.
" Yeah" he mumbled, " I got paperwork to do"
Hands dripping he scrunched the paper towel in his fist before throwing it into the bin, the door clattered behind him, leaving a confused Phil once more in his wake.
Back at his desk he cradled his head against his hand as he stared at the blank screen. There was only so much paperwork he could immerse himself in before his well of excuses ran dry.
The screen was blurring at the edges when he next convinced himself to tear his gaze away, when he thought it safe to turn from the pretence of work, the dusk he could see beginning to settle allowed him the solace of solitude, the lack of judgement a welcome relief.
He didn't need the whispers and speculation buzzing around his ears, Sun Hill was bad enough without having his name dragged through the rumour mill.
" Another late night Mickey?"
He startled as the words broke through the silence, shattering his thoughts.
Jack's shadow cast itself across his desk. Mickey raised his eyes to meet hazel spheres of suspicion, crested with that unshakeable concern that he wished would just vanish. It was as if Jack's pupils had been tainted with worry ever since Mickey had confided in him at the graveyard.
" Just finishin' up now 'Guv" he lied, the ease at which the falsity came bitter against his tongue. There was a time when a lie would burn with guilt but not now, now it was just the norm.
" They way you're going you'll have no work left to do" Jack joked, the discomfort evident in his feigned chuckle. No matter how much distance he attempted to place between himself and the young DC he found his investment in ensuring his well-being never quite wavered.
" What? No work 'round 'ere? Havin' a laugh ain't 'ya Jack?"
The laughter was more genuine this time as Jack relaxed slightly. A shimmer of hope that perhaps Mickey was just wanting to tie up loose ends, that perhaps he was indeed just finishing paperwork. He knew he had a blind spot when it came to Mickey as much as it pained him to admit it. The blind spot blighted the younger man's wrongdoings to a certain extent but made him more sensitive to his psyche. For once he dared to believe that paperwork could just be paperwork and not a smokescreen.
" Fancy a drink before you head home?"
Mickey studied his fingernails as he mulled over the suggestion.
" Nah," he ventured finally, the word heavy in his mouth, " It's late an' it's been a long day. Might just go home."
Jack nodded and Mickey kept his stare on his hands, not wanting to meet the look of disappointment he was positive he would find scarring Jack's features.
It wasn't exactly a lie he rationalised as he left the station. He would go home. He just wouldn't sleep. He knew drinking with Jack would be harder than drinking alone. Drinking with Jack meant talking. Talking took effort. It meant restraint and control and Mickey just wanted to spiral.
Whereas on his own he could make a sizeable dent in the cans of beer he had stocked in the fridge. He could get smashed free from judgement and concern. He knew he couldn't forget the memories but he could have a damn good try at blocking them out.
He threw his jacket over the banister as he let himself in. The house as chaotic as he'd left it, a mess to mirror his state of mind. Mickey didn't care. It wasn't as if he had anyone to invite back, he was rapidly burning any bridges with anyone who showed a flicker of compassion for his tortured soul.
Beer in hand he sank against the couch, not even bothering to kick off his trainers. He chugged, gulping and gasping in his desperation to consume the beverage, to soak himself in the alcohol so he didn't have to suffocate beneath the memories.
He slumped further as the blackness deepened, head against the arm of the settee, world beginning to blur as he grappled for another can. He'd drink it away.
He could drink it away.
He slurped at the froth pooling around the rim, the tin clinking against his teeth in his urgency.
Fear fading as he drank, a numbness deadening him to anything but the booze. The memories becoming fuzzy and disjointed as he bathed himself in liqueur, as he swallowed every precious mouthful.
The shame was still there. He twisted his features in disgust, a rancid despise for himself and the pathetic human being he had become.
He crushed the can in his fist furiously as he realised the can was empty. His sixth? Seventh? Mickey had long ago lost count.
He had to drink more. The shame had to be obliterated.
Sluggishly he dragged himself upwards, feet echoing against empty cans as he shuffled through the debris of his drinking, in frantic search of more.
Palm closed around the final can, still cold from its time in the fridge, the saving grace. It'd blot the shame. It had to.
A hiss as he opened it, a welcome sound in the silence that surrounded him.
He sank to the floor, back against the ceramic face of the door, beer sloshing over his jeans. Soaked denim only regretted because it meant less alcohol to drink.
Disorientated he raised a quivering hand, liquid against lips, sour against his tongue as he inhaled it in. Drinking as necessary as breathing.
Eyes drooping in the shadows, can drained it clunked against the tiles as his fingers weakened allowing it to roll across the floor.
A drunken sob, half choked from his chest.
He still felt dirty.
Shame still seared him.
Surely there's a criminal that's affected you more than others.
Spluttering through the tears Mickey grieved for the person he'd become.
He couldn't drink it away.
He couldn't hit the self destruct button hard enough.