Going At It Alone
I'm trying to get all these Wordy fics out of my head before this episode on Friday. I'm kind of freaking out, can you tell? I love Wordy so much, I can't even imagine the show without him...it's going to be so odd. But, I'm going to stop rambling and write now. I don't own Flashpoint, if I did than Wordy would't be in this predicament and this episode coming up would be a whole lot happier than it seems it will be.
Human beings weren't meant to hold onto secrets. Sure, they were able to keep small things to themselves, it was a necessary reality of life that not all things could be vocalized but stress and anxiety were not meant to lay dormant for months. They slowly ate at him, his heart feelingly like it was constantly in a vice, his pulse racing every time he thought of his job and the doctor's prognosis, his head pounding as he thought and rethought his future and the seeming downturn it had taken.
He laid in his bed, yet again staring at the clock hoping that sleep would come. It had been months now. He'd lay down for bed the same time as his wife, she'd close her eyes and fall asleep in minutes and he'd lay there, tossing and turning for hours to possibly squeeze in two or three hours of restless napping. That was the first red flag. Sleep problems were never a good sign but for someone in his job it was usually a precursor to something much worse and much deeper. He'd kept the sleepless nights to himself though; plausible deniability became his friend as Allie conveniently turned two and grew afraid of the dark. He'd hear her small feet inching up to their door and close his eyes, pretending to be asleep, needing to maintain the facade of perfection he'd built.
Things fell into a routine after a while and managing on little sleep was a part of his life that he was growing accustom to, then the shaking started. It was subtle at first, maybe too much coffee and the lack of sleep was combining and his arm was just the physical manifestation of that, the idea seemed to work at easing his worries for a few days. But when his shooting scores started their steady decline, he knew that it was something beyond that, something serious. He also knew that the only way to quell his mounting anxiety was to see a doctor, but at what cost? Maybe he'd find peace of mind but maybe things would swing in the other direction and the doctor would tell him what he avoided accepting each day: something was wrong. He knew that the lie couldn't last forever; not only was he looking and feeling worse at every turn, but he was long overdue for a full medical in order for work clearance.
And things finally became real. There was no question about Toth's harsh techniques and unrelenting questioning, Wordy knew that he wasn't the only one still having issues from that day months ago, he just doubted that anyone else's were so serious, so reality shaking as his. A full medical, it seemed like an easy requirement to re-qualify, the rest of the team was jealous of his seemingly easy task but none of them knew. Greg might have had an idea that the results wouldn't be good but he had so much on his plate that, like the rest of the times he'd tried to inquire about Wordy's seeming exhaustion and slower responses, his word that he was fine was easily accepted and things moved on to the new crisis.
Just as Greg had taken his word that he was fine for all those months, he took his word that the doctor had cleared him and that the shaking seen in the evaluation was just a stress reaction. Lying to Greg almost made him physically sick. He knew that he was getting himself into a situation that he wouldn't be able to talk himself out of at some point and he knew that he was taking advantage of Greg's trust when he didn't disclose the doctor's full findings and recommendations. He also knew that he was putting the team in jeopardy, something he promised himself years ago when he started, that he would never do. He had joked that he would be at the SRU until he needed a walker, it was the right place for him to be, but he also knew that when his ability to do his job was compromised he'd step down; he didn't expect to have three young kids, a mortgage, and imminent medical bills piling up.
And then Ed came back to work. Wordy was relieved that he and Izzy were alright and glad to know that his friend could return to the job he loved so dearly but he also had to worry. If anyone would be able to see through him and notice the subtle changes, it would be Ed. They'd known each other for so long, they'd been through thick and thin, literally living almost half of their lives together and it was part of their job to anticipate and know the other's thoughts and actions in stressful situations. They could read each other better than anyone else in the world, possibly better than they could read their own wives at some points, and Wordy knew that their bond would present an issue. He hoped that there would be so much on Ed's plate and so many other things to worry about that he wouldn't notice, of course he was wrong.
It took Ed two weeks to figure out that something was wrong, to see him taking his medication (which he didn't dare take home for fear of Shelly finding it). It took him only a few hours to confront him with what he'd seen and to later lecture him. Wordy didn't know what to say, he wasn't ready to talk about it yet, wasn't sure he'd ever really be ready, but he asked Ed to trust him and he made it clear that he could not. Wordy's blood boiled with anger masking the deep sting of the betrayal he felt. How could Ed, his best friend and partner for years, not trust him? It didn't make any sense. He trusted his judgment enough to shoot the subject that afternoon. There hadn't been time for Ed to check his shot, he relied on Wordy's calculations and observations and he couldn't afford to miss. He didn't hesitate to shoot on his word but he hesitated to say that he trusted his friend?
Wordy couldn't lay in bed and let the thoughts circle in his mind anymore. It was just past midnight and he was starting to get another headache from all the thinking and stress. He gently removed the light blanket from his body and sat up, trying hard not to disturb the bed and wake Shelly; he didn't want to talk, didn't trust himself to speak at this point. He felt tears coming to his eyes as he got up and walked down the hall, no noise coming from his footsteps. He didn't let himself look at his girls' doors knowing that it would only make him more emotional. How was he supposed to provide for his family if he was put on disability? How would he explain to his girls that he was not the flawless super hero that they believed he was? How could he live with himself knowing that he'd let down the public which relied on him, his team which trusted him, and his family which worshiped him, that he was slowly disintegrating into a shadow of himself, that he was a ticking time bomb, waiting to blow?
He couldn't. He couldn't admit any of those things, verbalize any of those fears or betrayals. He just couldn't. He wouldn't. He wouldn't let it get to that point where, not only was he withering away, but he was a burden to those who loved him. And that was what he'd become. He was dizzied by the realization as he felt his lips moving, forming the words in a quiet whisper of disbelief.
"I am a burden." He wasn't totally sure if the statement was true yet and he briefly considered the idea that he was catastrophizing things slightly but the overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame wouldn't leave his mind. It felt like they'd burrowed deep into his brain and would not release the grip they had on his rationality and sanity.
He didn't remember getting up from the kitchen table and he didn't remember getting into his car. He didn't know how his gun, usually kept locked in his glovebox, got into his hands or how the bullets were loaded in the chamber but as he seemingly regained the consciousness that he never lost he found himself checking the mechanisms. Part of his brain was screaming at him, why wasn't he throwing the gun away and getting out of the car this instant? Why wasn't he more concerned with what he was doing? And why the hell was his thumb swiping the safety to the off position?
His hands shook but he didn't think it was from the cold or from what the medication was supposed to be fixing. He felt his hands quiver a bit as he turned the gun over and ran his fingers up and down the barrel, feeling the cool, smooth metal and letting the grip rest naturally in the crook of his right hand. He was around guns so often that it didn't scare him or make him anxious about holding one, it was the thoughts that were making him nervous tonight.
Did he really want to do this? There was no going back from this option...but then again there didn't seem to be any way of undoing the damage he'd done at the SRU, lying to his superiors and making them look bad, putting his team in danger. Shelly would take it hard, he knew that she would be overwhelmed by grief and the idea of her pain was almost enough for him to stop what he was doing but another idea flew into his mind: she'd be standing over his grave at some point in the future, a much sooner future than either of them had ever anticipated, at least right now there was no prolonged suffering for her or the girls. They didn't have to watch as their husband and father deteriorated, eventually unable to eat, bathe, or do anything of use. The team would have each other for support and his family would have the team to lean on, he knew that they would help out.
Even though the thoughts had started out feeling untrue, he was rationalizing them and things seemed to fall into place. This was the only way for it to happen. Honestly, he'd never thought of himself old and retired, wrinkled and alone; his mind never went that far ahead. He'd had the nightmares about dying on the job, he'd lived those nightmares with Lou. He'd never thought about dying by his own hand though. It seemed so cowardly when he looked at it from the outside, so sad, something so far removed from himself that he almost scoffed at the questions on the psych evaluations that asked if he'd ever thought about suicide.
Tears were coming to his eyes now as his hands shook even more than usual. He cocked the hammer back and took a few breaths to steady himself. He pulled down the mirror above the driver's seat and ran his hand over a photo tucked between the fabric. It was a picture of a barbecue he'd had months ago, right at the end of the summer. Clark had taken it while standing on a chair in order to squeeze everyone into the frame. Sophie and Shelly were leaned over baby Izzy, only focused on her tiny features, Jules looking over towards them but sitting on the other side of the table between Sam and Ed. Sam seemed to only have eyes for Jules as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye and Ed smiled at his wife. Spike and Greg sat nearby, the only two actually looking at the camera and smiling. Wordy was at the end of the table, Allie on his lap asleep, Claire and Lilly hanging on his chair and talking to him animatedly.
He openly cried now as he took the photo out of it's spot and held it in his left hand tightly. More deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, trying to get himself ready but it wasn't working. His hands were resisting, his body so racked with sobs that he put the gun down for a moment for fear of accidentally firing. He couldn't remember ever crying this intensely, not on his worst days was he ever incapacitated by tears but that was where he stood and there seemed to be no ending in sight. He say in his driveway sobbing for what felt like hours, he gasped for breath between his uneven cries of pain and hurt and pure emotion. He didn't know when it would stop, he didn't know what he would do when he had no more energy to cry, he didn't know if he wanted to think about it right now when a sound interrupted the still of the night.
He wasn't sure if it was his lungs protesting against the sporadic oxygen or if he was shivering, but he felt himself vibrate. He forgot that he'd taken his phone from the bedroom night table and thrown it in his pocket. Maybe it was habit from work, or maybe it was that he subconsciously wanted this to happen, but he felt him thumb sliding over the phone and unlocking it, letting him accept the call from the familiar number.
"Wordy?" The voice asked, seemingly surprised that the call was answered.
"Yeah, Ed." Wordy let the words out quickly and hoped that his ragged breathing was not coming across over the phone. There was a pause before the surprised voice came back.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I was planning on leaving a voicemail..." Ed seemed to be regretting his choice but took a breath. "I just wanted to apologize for today, you know, the stuff in the locker room."
"Forget about Eddie." Wordy said as calmly as he could manage. He was actually surprised at how flat his affect could seem even as he quietly tried to control his breathing and his tears. There was another pause before Ed spoke with a bit more fervor.
"You okay? You sound out of breath?" He asked, curiosity and nervousness in his voice.
"I'm good." He kept his sentences short, not trusting himself with longer ones. He could almost sense Ed nodding on the other end of the line, his tone growing a bit suspicious.
"What were you doing up at 3 AM?" He tried but couldn't get the interrogator tone from his voice.
"Couldn't sleep." Wordy said quickly before taking a breath. "You?"
"Me neither." Ed said with a bit of hesitance. He paused for a long moment before speaking again. "You got anything you want to tell me, Wordy?" His tone was softer than it was in the locker room, almost knowing. Wordy didn't answer, torn between having so much to tell and so much to hide. Ed waited a solid two minutes before speaking again.
"Wordy, I'm really sorry about this. I did something in the heat of the moment, something that was wrong but that I don't regret." He started with a slow, cautious tone. "After you left today...I broke open your locker." Ed waited for some kind of reaction but Wordy was torn between pure anger, guilt, and a feeling of care. "I found the pills." He said simply. He again waited for a response but didn't find one as Wordy sat in shock. "You could have told me, Wordy." There was an edge of hurt in his voice as Wordy felt renewed tears in his eyes. "You could have told me anything and you know I would have helped you."
"There are some things you can't help with." Wordy said simply, almost coldly as he glanced back towards the gun. "There are things that nothing can help. Not trust, not friends, not family, not little blue pills..." His voice was almost bitter now.
"Wordy, talk to me here." Ed asked, almost pleaded. Wordy didn't want to talk, he didn't want to hurt anymore and he didn't want to hide. He didn't want Ed to have to carry the burden that he'd had to hold on to for months and he didn't want Ed to feel guilty in the morning when the facts came out.
"Nothing more to talk about." He brought back his cold tone, trying to detach himself from the conversation.
"I think that there is something to talk about here, Wordy..." Ed said confidently, far more knowledgeable than he'd even hoped to be. "You thinking about doing something right now?" Ed asked knowingly. Wordy almost flinched as he heard Ed's implied meaning behind the words. How the fuck does he know what I'm thinking, I don't even know what I'm thinking. The silence was enough of an answer. "How about I come over there and we have a little talk, buddy?"
"I don't know Ed, it's kind of late, maybe tomorrow." Wordy said half-heartedly, knowing that Ed was not taking no for an answer.
"I'm afraid tomorrow might be a little too late, I'm worried about you." He said honestly, his voice portraying confidence despite his worry.
"I'm in the driveway." He said before he could even think about it.
"I'll be over in five." Ed said before speaking again. "What are you doing in the driveway?" He asked curiously.
"Just thinking..." Wordy replied before wiping his face on his sleeve, trying to clean up a bit.
"Thinking about something permanent? Something to end the pain?" Ed asked, feeling his heart jump as Wordy let out a slight sigh.
"More or less." He whispered into the phone. He could tell Ed was nodding, thinking.
"Okay, I'll be there soon. Just stay on the line with me." Wordy heard him starting his car. "I'm going to be there in a few minutes and we're going to have a talk and you're not going to be alone anymore. You hear me?" He asked, his cool confidence shielding his worry again.
"I hear you, Eddie." Wordy tried to hold back the tears again. He took deep breaths again as Ed spoke into the phone, calmly assuring him that things were going to work out okay, that he was going to be there in minutes, assuring him that he was no longer alone.
And even though Wordy hadn't told Ed anything, and even though he was still locked in his car, he felt the truth in his friend's words. He had shouldered his burden, his secrets, alone for so long that he forgot it was possible to share them with people. He forgot the relief that came with a friend knowing what was going on and the feeling of being cared for. He knew that things were going to get tough, but he also knew that he would never be alone in his fight. He could probably function alone, but why would he when he had an entire team, a family, to back him and support him; why did he even try? He glanced at the photo in his hands again, even if he wasn't going to be okay, even if he wouldn't be out there fighting the bad guys with the team every day, he knew that he was never going to be alone.
Wow, I actually really like the way this came out. Although, I am exhausted so maybe that has something to do with it. I hope you guys like this and please leave me a review. I love feedback, keeps me writing more often. Also, if you're on facebook, make sure to check out Flashpoint Team One. We've got a ton of awesome stuff going on from contests, to discussions, to writing a joint fanfic about Babycakes (it's turning out awesomely by the way.) Thanks for the read. (and review?) :)