The characters from the TV show 'the Shield' doesn't belong to me. Nor does the lyrics to 'Bad Moon Rising'. The proper owners would be Shawn Ryan/the FX and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Author's Notes:
This story was written for Katt as a bribe to keep her writing on her own stories. Stories that you, by the way, should go read. She wanted to see angsty!Dutch, protective!Vic and motherhen!Claudette in an episode-tag to 'Cherrypoppers' and I was only happy to oblige.
Warnings:
The difficult subject of the day is child abuse. Nothing graphic, mostly just innuendoes actually. However there's a scene in Chapter Five I think sensitive people should be aware of. I should probably also put up warnings for foul language, references to sexual activities and well... a bunch of other grown up stuff. As it's pretty much just the same stuff that you'll find in the show, I'm assuming that if you're old enough to watch 'the Shield' then you're old enough to read this.
Also I'd like to mention that while this story has been spell-checked and read through more than once before posting it has not been beta'd. Consider yourself cautioned.
Summary of the episode 'Cherrypoppers':
Detective Holland "Dutch" Wagenbach and his partner, Claudette Wyms, desperately tries to catch the killer of a child hooker (Sally). Dutch is convinced that they're dealing with a serial killer and spends most of the episode in his 'profiling mood'. In the meantime Vic Mackey and his team are doing their usual... uh, thing. They end up taking down a cherrypopper ring.
(Cherrypoppers = porn dealing only with pre-teen's 'first time'.)
While Dutch sits in on Vic's 'talk' with the ring-leader (a woman in bad make up), Vic forces her to watch the cherrypopper flick with Sally. Seeing the film really upsets Dutch and Vic ends up being very human about it. Later on, stressed out and still in the aftermath of his almost-break down, Dutch blows up at Danny Sofer. In his apology to her later on, Dutch hints at secrets in his own past...
PAST PRESENT,
written by Whipper
Chapter One.
The next morning found him sitting at his desk with a headache that was half hang-over and half due to the stress he'd been through the day before. He kept his eyes firmly aimed at the file in front of him although, truth to be told, he probably couldn't even give a brief summary of it's content. The words were just dancing around on the page, randomly changing places with each other in some, undoubtedly very evil, conspiracy to drive him insane.
He reached out blindly for his cup of coffee and took a large gulp of what turned out to be very foul liquid. The only option to spitting it all out over the open file was to swallow and he did so with a grimace that he was sure made what he already considered to be a less than pleasant face even uglier. A quick look around assured him that he'd been rather lucky though; no one had seen him. His shoulders sagged down and he released a small sigh of relief.
Hey, he said to himself in a -- yes, admittedly rather sad -- attempt to cheer up, at least Danny wasn't around to witness that. Or Mackey for that matter.
If this had been yesterday the entire squad would have seen you make your patented Panic Face over a cup of lousy coffee. More mocking material for Mackey and his goons and more reason for Danny to consider you a loser. (If that's really at all possible after last night.)
And well, since none of things happened you might be lucky and today won't turn out to be a sucky sequel to yesterday's candidate for Worst Day In The Life Of Holland Wagenbach.
"Dutch?" His partner's soothing voice dragged him back into the outside world. "Sleeping on the job again?"
"Just recovering from this." He held up the cup for inspection while staring accusingly at the dark swill inside it. "Look at it carefully. It might just be the worst cup of coffee I've ever had."
Claudette snorted in what was a very unlady-like gesture of either amusement or sympathy. His partner was, he thought to himself as he watched her sit down by her desk, not a very easy person to read. His mouth twitched into something that, on another day, he would have called a smile as he realized that if he -- a man who was, after all, making a living on his ability to read people correctly -- had problems with her then other people probably found her close to enigmatic.
As the aforementioned enigma gave him a sharp look he forced himself to sit up properly and look down at the file in front of him again. It seemed to be mocking him with it's unreadable text and gross, much too-graphic photos. He highly doubted he'd have any better luck with getting it to make sense this time though so instead he chose to continue to ponder on the enigma that was Claudette Wyms. Admittedly the word 'enigma' wasn't the first one that came to mind when one thought of her but to him, today at least, it seemed fitting.
Of course, a dark voice in the back of his head added derisively, the past days has quite effectively proven that you're apparently not quite as good at reading people as you like to think you are. So an 'enigma' for you probably equals a page out of a child's book of brain-teasers.
He tried to ignore the all too-familiar voice, knowing from experience that he was unable to argue with it. Even though it was just an echo from the past and not really a threat to him anymore there were just some lessons you learned too well. And this particular lesson ("Don't talk back to me!") was one Dutch had learned the hard way and wasn't very likely to ever forget.
A shudder ran through his body at the sudden onslaught of memories that the voice brought with it and he suddenly felt even more sick than before. He was just about to reach out for the bottle of Tylenol he kept in one of his desk-drawers just for days like these when a meaty hand suddenly grabbed on to his shoulder.
The sudden physical contact in combination with the dark thoughts that occupied his mind was enough to surprise an unfortunately very unmanly yelp from him before he managed to shake off the intruding hand and turn around in, what was for him, a surprisingly fluid motion. A motion that brought him face to face with Vic Mackey. Who, admittedly, wasn't on the list of Dutch's favourite people but still a whole lot better than the alternative that his mind had suggested.
Mackey had backed a few steps at Dutch's sudden and -- he realized that now -- rather unprovoked reaction and his hands were held up at shoulder-height while a small smirk played on the man's lips. Dutch frowned, feeling a little silly for over-reacting and very wary about being approached by the leader of the Strike Team.
"What do you want now, Mackey?"
The bald man looked around the room as if saying "Will you believe this guy?" to the few people -- among them Claudette, Dutch realized with a small face -- who had, of course, noticed the way Dutch first had been startled by Mack's approach and then had followed it up with what probably seemed like rather unmerited hostility.
"You better get laid soon, Dutch-boy," Mackey suggested in a voice loud enough to carry through the large room. "Cause you're getting to be waaay too tense."
The small chuckles that followed from different directions made Dutch wish dully for the ground to open up and swallow him. Mackey's smirk vanished as soon as everyone's attention -- save Claudette's -- returned to their work though and he leaned forward slightly, a look of concern on his face. The look did nothing to calm Dutch though, who very much doubted the sincerity of it.
"Nah, seriously though, Dutch," Mack continued in a much lower voice. "Yesterday was tough on all of us and I just wanted to make sure you were handling it."
"I'm handling it."
The reply was instantaneous and, in a way, even true. He was handling it. He just wasn't handling it very well. But that was hardly something that he wanted Mackey to know. The man already though of him as weak and... Dutch found himself searching for the right word. Whatever the correct antonym for equals was, he finally decided just as Mackey pulled back with a small frown on his face.
"If you say so." The man's eyes were hidden by a pair of sun glasses -- the ones that Mackey always seemed to be wearing regardless of whether or not it was actually sunny outside -- but Dutch could still feel the intense blue eyes burning into him. "If you change your mind though and need someone to take a beer with, you know where to find us."
The strong, meaty hand was back on his shoulder again, patting it almost affectionately before Mackey turned around and walked back to where the rest of the Strike Team were waiting impatiently for him. Dutch was left behind with sticky hands, an elevated heartbeat and the horrible feeling that he'd been played somehow. Surely the man couldn't have been serious?
He gingerly rubbed the spot on his shoulder that Mackey had just touched -- some primal way to mark it as his own again, he supposed -- while Mackey, Vendrell and the rest of the Strike Team left the squad room laughing and exchanging mock blows. As always acting more like a pack of wild animals than sensible human beings, he thought to himself even as a small part of him wondered what it would be like to have someone like Vic Mackey to watch your back.
He quickly shook his head. People like Vic Mackey were bullies and people like himself -- people who more or less had the word Victim stamped on their forehead -- did well to not mix with bullies.
Let's try not to hand away what little self-respect you have just because the most popular person at work just recognized the fact that you exist, okay, Holland?
"You all right, son?"
For the second time that morning Claudette's voice tugged him back to reality and he forced himself to offer her a tiny smile as thanks.
"Right as rain."
And it wasn't really lying, he thought as he made a third attempt to interpret the file in front of him. Partly because really, there was nothing even remotely right about rain. And secondly, this was life. His life. Nothing new about any of it. Nothing to complain about.
He wasn't quite sure who it was he was trying to convince.
***
"You coming?"
"Huh?"
Claudette looked down at him, her face a patient mask even though he could swear there was a glint of amusement in her dark eyes.
"Lunch. A meal most of us eat around noon once a day. It keeps us alive."
"I'm not really in the mood for eating."
His answer didn't do much to impress Claudette though, who with a frown on her face and hands resting on her hips looked like somebody's mother. Not his, though. His mother had never cared enough to keep track on his eating habits. Or anything else that had happened in their house for that matter.
"Not in the mood for eating?" Claudette echoed, a disbelieving note in her voice. "I didn't know eating required a mood, just an empty stomach and something edible."
She was probably right, but the fact remained that the thought of food didn't exactly appeal to a stomach that had been queasy ever since he'd woke up that morning. Looking down pointedly at the black and white photos spread all over his desk, he hoped that that would be enough of an answer. The pictures were all of her -- of Sally -- and having spent most of the morning staring at them was as good an excuse as any to skip lunch.
Claudette followed his glance but made no motion of having understood the unspoken explanation and after a few painfully long seconds Dutch realized that she wasn't about to either.
"This case is... uhm... it's-"
"Closed until you've had your lunch."
Her voice suggested he would be very stupid to argue with her. Dutch could still feel his mouth opening slightly but it quickly snapped shut as she gave him her infamous glare.
"You can't allow cases to get too personal, son."
He stod up and nodded meekly, abandoning Sally on his desk as he followed his partner to the deli next door. All the while he wondered how the hell he was supposed to do that.
Chapter Two will be up in a few days.
