A/N: I'm a British person attempting to write Americans. If any phrases sound weird, or something just screams "an American would never say that!" just let me know in the comments and I'll fix it.

So I got through playing Heavy Rain for the first time a few days ago, and absolutely loved Norman. The fact he doesn't really get a happy ending in-game inspired me to write him one.

Ex-Special Agent Norman Jayden groaned weakly, prising his eyes open. He was lying on his hotel room floor, mouth like sandpaper and every inch of him aching from withdrawal.

He choked out a cough and tried to rise, but his battered limbs wouldn't support him; Norman groaned miserably as fresh cramps twisted his muscles, letting his head drop back to the floor and pressing his face into the carpet until the scratchy material burned against his cheek. The sharp pain helped distract from the charley horses galloping up his back — before nausea suddenly engulfed him, bile flooding his mouth.

Norman made a panicked noise and wrenched himself up onto his elbows, ignoring his screaming muscles as he turned his head just in time to be violently sick.

Just let it happen. Stay still. If you fall down, you'll choke an' suffocate. Stay still.

He steadied himself internally and held himself still, squeezing his eyes shut as bile burned up his nose and trying just to relax until it eventually stopped.

He remained frozen in place for a few moments afterwards, panting, waiting for his stomach to stop churning before attempting to move. The room felt like an icebox; he gritted his teeth to stop them rattling, grimaced when his shirt and pants and hair stuck to his skin with sweat as he moved. Some vague part of his mind noted that he should change, have a hot shower and crawl into bed before the combination of rain-damp clothes and Tripto sweats landed him with pneumonia.

Norman tested his leg muscles gingerly against the carpet, but his knees were like jelly, refusing to lock long enough to hold him up. His elbows were already shaking with the effort of supporting his torso; he levered himself over with difficulty to drop onto his side, groaning as his battered muscles hit the floor again. At least now if he passed out, he wouldn't wake up in his own vomit. He gave a croaky chuckle at the thought, wiping a hand across his mouth and grimacing against the aftertaste. Passing out in your own puke usually meant you didn't wake up after, unless you were lucky enough to land with a nostril or the side of your mouth free.

Fucking junkies. Useless, pathetic shits, the lot of 'em. All the same; they make their own mess, and they don't want helped outta it, neither. They all end up the same: dead in their own vomit.

How many times had he heard some variation on that remark from his colleagues at the FDA? From detectives, from beat cops, from Blake? Or was it his father who had said that?

Fuckin' faggots. Unnatural, disgusting freaks, the lot of 'em. All the same; they go against nature, then cry about it when someone roughs 'em up. All end up the same: dead in their own shit 'n blood.

No, that was his father: a beat cop and ex-marine whose hatred for criminals and drug addicts was outstripped only by his hatred for homosexuals. At least Norman had managed to avoid the first of those categories.

He shut his eyes and just lay on his back for a few moments, panting, trying to gather the strength to get up. Memories of the last time he'd left home flashed into his mind unbidden, out of order and fuzzy at the edges. His possessions, broken and shredded, scattered around the driveway in the grey fall light. His mother, shaking her head despairingly and weeping into a kitchen towel. His father, face purple with rage, lifting him off the floor by the collar and throwing him out the door, bellowing at him not to come back, that a filthy, disease-ridden faggot was no son of his. That goddamn porn magazine, lying innocently in the middle of the kitchen table after his father had gone snooping, wanting to borrow some money, and had pulled it out from beneath Norman's mattress.

The real irony was that if he'd just torn the covers off and slipped the magazine inside a copy of FHM or Playboy, nothing would have happened. His father wouldn't have so much as mentioned it; hell, there would probably have been more dirty magazines intended for straight men beside the first the next time he'd reached for it. He could've stayed at home until he'd finished college, wouldn't have had to grab the first job he could find straight after graduation to be able to eat. Wouldn't have joined the FBI; wouldn't have been so desperate for promotion and to prove himself out of fear of losing his job; wouldn't have joined the ARI programme when offered a place. Wouldn't have gotten hooked on Triptocaine. Wouldn't be here now, puking his guts out on a hotel room floor and praying he survived the night, because there was no-one to call, no-one to come and help him no matter how bad things got.

Wish you could see me now, Pops. 'Two outta three ain't bad'. How fuckin' disappointed would you be, old man.

Norman's vision was blurred when he opened his eyes again, the room spinning when he tried to move. He shut his eyes with a groan and forced himself up onto his hands and knees, aiming for the bathroom. If he could just get to the shower, splash some water on his face he'd be alright...He managed to crawl a few paces before his elbows gave out, and the floor rushed up to meet him.

He came to again to a searing pain in his nose and something sticky and wet clogging his nostrils, making it difficult to breath. He gave an involuntary whimper and heaved a gulp of air through his mouth, rolling onto his side and trying desperately just to breathe. There was blood coating his face, running into his mouth, hot and coppery; he spat it out instinctively, groaning as the motion made white-hot pain explode across his face.

Norman swallowed a fresh globule of blood and blinked his eyes open, gasping. His vision was still so blurry that all he could see was vague blobs of colour against a wash of grey; he shut his eyes with a quiet sob and fought to keep himself together. Blurry vision was normal during withdrawal, and it was a damn sight better than seeing things — he grimaced as a wave of chills hit him, curling up tight despite himself in a bid to conserve heat. "D-Dammit..."

This's never gonna stop, is it? This is me now — after everythin', even when I was careful with the ARI, even after I kicked Tripto the first time, even when I fuckin' stopped — it wasn't enough. I'm never gonna get out of this.

He made a choked noise and curled up tighter, pulling his arms over his head and willing himself just to pass out, to sleep, to...to just not wake up again. This wasn't living, it hadn't been for almost four years — ever since he'd put on those fucking glasses. Childhood trauma, low frustration threshold, perfectionism, social anxiety, social isolation, workaholism, high natural sensitivity to psychoactive substances — everything about him made him the perfect foil, the perfect test subject, and the perfect victim, for ARI and for Triptocaine. He'd been screwed from the start.

Norman choked out a sob and blinked his eyes open, bringing his arms down to hug himself as he willed the swirling blobs in front of him to pull back together into shapes. He knew of others in the ARI programme who'd used it so much they started to see things from it permanently, glasses or no glasses. New England forests and transparent baseballs and miniature tanks, following them everywhere they went until the hallucinations drove them mad. He hadn't reached that point yet, had never reached it, would never reach it now that he'd resigned and turned ARI in, glasses and glove and all, along with his badge. There was some small comfort to be found in that, even if the Triptocaine was still destroying his body and brain. He shivered and hugged himself tighter, squeezing his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to escape.

How long had it been since he'd been hugged by another person? Felt something that wasn't a collegiate, clinical pat on the shoulder, or a punch, or the grasp and shove and rhythmic, mindless pounding of an anonymous sexual encounter? He was 26; four years away from 30. Four years away from when most people were settling down and buying a house and partnering up with someone. Four years away from when most people had already done most of their living.

What did he have to show for himself? Good high school grades and a great college degree; a 'preternatural aptitude' for profiling and detective work even without ARI, and a 'bright and promising' career — until he'd fucked it all up, let the extra hours he'd spent in ARI, those last couple tubes of Tripto go to his head and accused Blake of being the Origami Killer with barely a shred of evidence. Norman cringed at the memory, shaking his head instinctively to dislodge it. Don't think about it, think about something else. Anything else. What else? Was there even anything else?

An eight-year estrangement from his family; a few friends scattered across states, none of them close enough to contact regularly or keep up with; a succession of partners who wanted nothing more to do with him beyond a quick fuck; no home to speak of outside a suitcase. Plus successive bunches of colleagues who hated his guts seemingly everywhere he went that wasn't big and metropolitan enough to lose himself in.

Norman let himself go limp against the carpet, coughing weakly as the last of the fight went out of him. He didn't even have a cat or anything that would miss him. He thought with a jolt of Nathaniel, that crazy Jesus-freak Blake had damn near beaten to death at the beginning of the OK investigation. Walking around the man's filthy, near-empty apartment, he'd felt overwhelmingly sorry for him; had wondered what had happened for this mentally ill, clearly desperate man to have ended up there alone, uncared for and forgotten? It had almost been a blessing that Norman and Blake had arrested the guy when they did; social services had gotten involved soon after, and the man was on his way to getting proper help by the time he'd been discharged from the station.

Norman wet his lips and shifted slightly, moving until he could see the hotel room door. He'd had a recurring fantasy as a kid of being rescued: of some heroic figure, whoever he'd looked up to at the time, sweeping into his childhood bedroom and taking him away, fixing all his problems and taking him somewhere better. Studying psychology at college had shown him the reasons behind it — only child, shitty parents, poor social skills, isolated, lonely, survival mechanism, hope — but it had never really gone away. There'd been a shift as he'd aged, the identity of his rescuer changing somewhere in his teens from childhood hero to idealised lover, but the root of it remained the same. That was why he was so passionate about saving other people, after all, why he threw his heart and soul and health and sanity into cracking cases and catching bad guys and rescuing drowning kids. Buried in his drive to save the world was a desperate desire to be saved himself. To save himself, from himself, if he could only figure out how.

Norman came to again sometime later, freezing cold and his joints aching savagely. His mind was alarmingly foggy, thoughts disjointed and sluggish; he shook his head with a groan and rubbed a hand across his eyes, wiping his bloody nose on the sleeve of his suit jacket and trying to force his head to clear. It was dark outside by now, the dim glow of streetlamps through the window the only light; the darkness of the room only seemed to make him feel colder.

Something heavy and black settled in Norman's stomach, draining the strength from his muscles and the hope from his heart no matter what he did to resist it. There really were no options left for him anymore. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms had eased for now, but they'd come back, they always did. Always would: no matter how long he went without using, he'd go back to it eventually. What kind of a life was that? He had no job, no family, no friends, no nothing — hell, even Nathaniel had religion! What did he have? What value or use was he to anyone when he couldn't even solve a simple case? He was weary to the bone, everything hurt, and there was no point in carrying on when this was all there was. He still had a few vials of Tripto left, enough to stop the pain entirely and just drift away. End his miserable life once and for all.

There was a sudden thud on his door, followed by two sets of running feet and high-pitched laughter. Norman blinked, smiled lop-sidedly despite himself at the voices, the sound of a woman's voice lovingly disciplining what were presumably her children. The contrast was striking; him lying here in the dark, shivering with withdrawal and planning to end his life, while outside a family on vacation made their way back to their room after dinner. Norman sighed sadly and levered himself up to sitting, ignoring how the room spun around him and forcing himself to his feet. He wouldn't have to walk far to reach the bathroom, and the Tripto would take care of any injuries he gave himself stumbling around. He wondered with a kind of fuzzy detachment why he wasn't more afraid of dying, realised with a wash of sadness that he'd been feeling like this for a while. Months, years, maybe forever. It had taken being stripped of his work, of routine and structure and social contact and purpose for the feeling to get loud enough for him to heed. But now he was listening, it was all that he could hear.

"But mom!" There was a sudden, sharp rap on his door and he jumped, staring at it in alarm and half-expecting someone to kick it down. The knock came again, loud and arrhythmic, and seemingly from the middle of the wood. A child. There was a freakin' kid knocking on his freakin' door.

"For fuck's sake." Norman sighed, hesitating, before padding over, fumbling to turn on a side light so he didn't terrify the kid, before opening the door a crack.

A pair of red-headed boys blinked owlishly up at him, the shorter of the two hiding behind the taller and holding onto his jacket. They couldn't have been older than six or seven. Norman blinked back, frowning, tugged at his tie in sudden awareness of how awful he probably looked.

"Er..."

"Can you see the Washington Monument from your room, mister?"

"Uh..." He frowned, willing his muddled brain to work. Washington Monument — Philly. Right, OK case, he was in Philly. Washington Monument — tourist attraction — implicated in the Origami murders — popular with kids. Monument was to the North — his room faced North — could he even see the damn thing from his window? Did it matter?

"Fox, Daniel, c'mon now!" A tall, red-haired woman in heels stepped into view, hovering just behind her children and eyeing Norman warily. He probably looked about as bad as he felt. "You're keeping the nice man from his dinner. Your dad will be wondering where we are, c'mon." Okay, he definitely looked as bad as he felt.

Norman sighed and bent down on his side of the doorway so that he was at the kids' eye level, forcing the most realistic, carefree smile he could manage and hoping belatedly that he didn't stink of vomit.

"I can see it, yeah. I've actually been up it; it's really cool. You should ask your mom to take you sometime."

"See, I told you so!" The taller of the two crowed triumphantly, jostling his sibling's shoulder and beaming at his mother. "Mom we've gotta go tomorrow, c'mon! Pleeeeeeease?!" The woman's shoulders sagged as both children took up the plea, but her eyes were smiling, arm around the shorter boy's shoulders as she ushered them away from the door.

"Let's go see what your dad says, hm? You remember the room number?"

"Yup! Room 3214!"

She glanced back at Norman as the kids ran off down the corridor, green eyes guarded beneath her auburn fringe where she looked him up and down.

"Sorry about that."

"No problem." He shrugged, smiling tightly, and dropped his gaze, social anxiety knotting his stomach more painfully even than withdrawal. He was excruciatingly aware of his puffy eyes and scratchy voice, the dishevelled suit he'd been wearing for God knew how long, his filthy hair, the stink of sweat and vomit and blood — fuck, he'd forgotten about the blood — on his clothes. It would be a miracle if this woman didn't call hotel security and have him thrown out, and it wasn't like he had anywhere to go now that —

"No, really — thank you, for being so patient with them. This food poisoning thing is just awful, my husband and I have both had it. Last time we're coming here on vacation, I can tell you that much! Well, g'night!"

"'Night."

Norman returned her smile lop-sidedly, frowning to himself as the woman walked away.

Food poisoning? She didn't look at me and immediately think 'junkie scum, stay the fuck away from my kids'? Guess she ain't too good at reading people. I hope they'll be alright, stayin' here.

He closed the door and leaned back against it with a sigh, mind already racing with possibilities, options, ways to help.

Room 3214. I could call the front desk, ask they put on extra security for the family on account of the Origami Killer just bein' caught. Fear of reprisals, copycats, all that stuff. Should still be able to use the FBI angle, they ain't gonna know I've resigned.

He thought for a moment, before padding over to the bed, sitting down and picking up the complementary phone. A warm wash of something like calmness, something like stability and confidence and joy enfolded Norman as he spoke with the desk clerk, arranging for all families with young children in the hotel to be notified and provided with extra security in the wake of the Origami Killer's capture. He was doing what he did best, the only damn thing he was any good at, and it felt incredibly soothing.

He put down the phone with a smile, shutting his eyes and putting his face in his hands for a moment, wanting to hold onto that warmth, that feeling of purpose and worth for as long as he could. But it faded as quickly as it had come, and he was back in his freezing dark hotel room, that black weight in his gut and the tremors and shooting pains that signalled a fresh round of withdrawal starting to creep into his hands.

"Shit..."

He clenched his hands into fists and curled up on the mattress, willing himself to ignore it, begging the damn thing to let up just this once if he only wished hard enough.

Don't think about it Jayden, think about something else. Think about those dumb kids goin' up the Washington Monument tomorrow and pissing their parents off. Think about Shaun Mars on the news, going back to school and braggin' to everyone how he has the best dad in the Universe. I mean he kinda does; that Ethan Mars is one helluva guy. Brave, dedicated, fuckin' sappy as shit and still somehow has the biggest balls of anyone I've ever met, doin' what he did...

This was...ugh. Good? Bad? He couldn't really tell anymore. Good in that Ethan Mars was a damned pleasant thing to be thinking about, withdrawal or no withdrawal. Bad in that thinking about the other — obviously straight — man only drove home how lonely he was about as painfully as tire spikes being driven into his gut.

They'd formed a friendship of sorts in the months after the OK case had been closed, bonding over an appreciation for good beer and their shared experiences during the crisis. Ethan was quiet, patient, about as socially awkward as Norman himself in a different way, and perhaps most notably of all, incredibly kind. He had a way about him that made Norman feel relaxed and accepted and valued in a way he never really had with anyone else. That, and for a 32-year-old house-husband with kids who sat on his ass drawing all day, he was a damned good-looking guy.

Maybe I should call him. Them, call them. The Marses. See how Shaun's doing, check everything's okay; see if they need anythin' before I check out.

Norman wet his lips and sat up, pain knifing down his back as he did so and making him gasp.

Here it comes. Fuck. Not long now Norman, it'll all be over soon. Just gotta phone the guy first, make sure the kid's okay. Make sure they got someone to call if they need it, that's the most important thing. Mars has a therapist, right? And that reporter, what was her name? Madeline, somethin'-or-other? Ex-wife —

He groaned as the cramps came back full force, nausea washing through him.

"Dammit all. Pick up the fuckin' phone Jayden, y'only need to talk for a couple minutes. Keep it together agent, c'mon."

Norman grabbed his cell phone from the table and forced himself to sit straight on the edge of the bed, squinting at the screen as he tried to find Ethan's number. His vision was slipping in and out of focus, hands trembling and a pounding headache starting up behind his eyes. He swallowed against another wave of nausea and hit the man's number, thought with a jolt of what he'd do if he needed to vomit during the call. There was always the floor; the thought made him cringe, but there was no guarantee he'd make it to the bathroom before his legs gave out again. He'd have to clean that up after the call, get the place as nice as he could for the housekeepers tomorrow. Probably worth just walking himself out to the river or something after, save some poor bastard from finding him. Even one vial of Tripto in him, and he wouldn't notice the rain, or the cold.

"Agent Jayden!" He started at the high-pitched, bubbly voice on the other end of the line, panic spasming in his gut.

"...Hey, Shaun. How're you do —" He broke off as a wave of cramps tore up his legs, his arms, his back all at once, breathing tightly through his nose and gritting his teeth against a scream. The kid had demanded his number after Norman and Ethan had gotten friendly, full of questions about police procedure and catching bad guys and clearly suffering from some degree of hero worship. Norman himself had barely done anything to help the investigation, aside from providing evidence to clear Mars' name after the father had found his son single-handedly, and the killer had taken a swan dive off a crane. Kid was seriously misplacing his admiration.

Norman put a hand to his aching neck and shut his eyes, fighting to get his thoughts in order long enough to say what he needed to. "...Hey. Sorry, I got a sore throat. Is your Dad there, bud?"

"Yeah, he's just ordering dinner. Daaaad, Agent Jayden wants to talk to you!" Norman winced as Shaun's yell reverberated around his skull, making his teeth rattle. Dinner; his brain locked onto the word for a moment, wondering vaguely when he'd eaten last. His stomach roiled at the thought of food and he shook himself, fighting to stay focussed. Talk to Ethan, make sure he's got someone to talk to, make sure him and the kid are okay, hang up. Job done.

"Have you caught any more bad guys, Agent Jayden?" He smiled lop-sidedly despite himself, a pang of sadness going through him at the empty space on the bedside table where his badge used to be.

"Not yet, buddy. I'm kinda on vacation right now."

"Awesome! Where are you going for it?" He repressed a sigh, the smile slipping as he thought of the Triptocaine stashed in his suitcase.

"Don't really know yet. Someplace warm, quiet. Someplace I don't gotta worry about anything anymore. M'lookin' forward to it."

"Can you send us a postcard?" He smiled crookedly despite himself, guilt twisting in his gut for lying to the kid. Ten to one they didn't sell postcards in...wherever he was going.

"Sure thing, kid."

"Can you — wait, here's Dad!" He sat up straighter as the phone line rustled, the room tipping suddenly around him. Pain exploded in his joints as he moved, searing through his muscles until his entire body felt like it was on fire.

Fuck. C'mon Jayden, keep it together...

"—'lo? Norman, you there?"

"...Hey, yeah. Sorry." He paused, panting, pushing a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. He was drenched in sweat, clothes damp against his skin and eyes stinging with salt. "I uh, just phoning to s-see how you're doing. Everything okay, you...you got everythin' you need? Shaun okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine; doing really good, actually. Shaun's doing well in school, and I'm back at work full-time; his mother has full custody now, obviously, but I still get to see him on weekends."

Norman nodded weakly as the other man rambled on, Ethan's voice fading in and out past a sudden roaring in his ears. "...probably better this way...homework...routine...can be the fun Dad...always better at that...screwing up responsibilities...big kid myself...an? Norman, you still there?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah. Sorry, m'not...not f-feelin' too great right now. You uh, you got someone to talk to? Like —" He broke off as a fresh wave of cramps corkscrewed through his muscles, choking back a groan.

"Norman?"

"Just, if you need to? S'important."

"You're not making sense. Are you sick?" He hung his head in relief as the cramps retreated for a few blessed moments, panting, mouth dry and head pounding so hard it felt like his skull was about to crack. The next wave was coming sooner or later; he only had a few minutes to say what he needed to.

"...Yeah. F-Food poisoning; s'a real trip. Listen —"

"God, that must be horrible. D'you want me to come over, bring you something —"

"NO!" He grimaced at the unintended ferocity in the word, tears pricking at his eyes as he gripped a handful of his hair in his free hand, tugging hard to try and force himself to focus. "Ethan y'gotta listen to me! D'you have s-someone...someone you can talk to? When shit gets t-too much?"

"I — yes, I mean — there's Dr Dupre, obviously; Madison; Grace; I have a couple of new work colleagues I get along pretty well with..."

The other man's voice faded out again as the roaring in Norman's ears intensified, fresh cramps tearing through his muscles, twisting his stomach, shooting up his neck and across his skull until he was engulfed in pain. He curled up over his knees with a groan, barely had time to register the sensation of falling before the floor rushed up to meet him, jarring his bones and making bile flood up his throat.

Fuck. C'mon Jayden, you're almost there...

He swallowed the acid with a grimace, coughing, fumbled for his phone where it lay beside his hand.

"E-Ethan?" Shit, what was the last thing he had to ask?

"Norman?! Thank God — hang on, I'm calling an ambulance —"

"No! No no no, please don't, don't, I'll be alright I swear..." He trailed off, panting for breath, pressed his forehead into the carpet in a bid to steady himself. "M'alright, I swear, just please don' call anyone, please, please don't."

"If you're sure...Norman you sound awful, this isn't like —"

"Jus' — just lemme say this. Hear me — hear me out. One second. One second, just don't hang up." Norman squeezed his eyes shut and begged his fuzzy, spinning mind to think, to shove everything else aside one last time and focus on what mattered, what needed to be done.

Talk to Ethan, make sure he's got someone to talk to, make sure him and the kid are okay, hang up.

It took far, far longer than it should have for him to mentally parse each item on that list, evaluate it, integrate new information gained, check it off, and move on to the next.

Talk to Ethan.

"—'lo? Norman, are you there?"

Done.

Make sure he's got someone to talk to.

"I — yes, I mean — there's Dr Dupre, obviously; Madison; Grace..."

Done.

Make sure him and the kid are okay.

"Yeah, we're fine; doing really good, actually."

Done.

...That was it, there wasn't anything else. He'd asked it all. Norman gave a hollow laugh as fresh tears ran down his cheeks, shutting his eyes and letting his head drop back against the carpet. Typical, staying on the phone long enough to panic the other man when he could've just hung up. Just one more screw-up to add to the list.

"Norman?!" Ethan's voice sounded different from his usual, relaxed cadence, a raw, steely edge to it he remembered hearing when the other man was searching for his son. "Shit — Norman can you hear me?!"

"Mmn. I hear you." He coughed weakly, the strength draining from his limbs as he tried to push himself upright. "M'alright. Don' worry 'bout me."

He was definitely too weak to move. Norman grimaced and let himself sink back onto the carpet, pillowing his throbbing head on one arm. He could pass out for a couple of hours, get his strength back, grab the Tripto and leave. Job done. The hardest part, calling Ethan, was over. "M'okay. I'll, uh...let y'go now, yeah? Gonna...gonna sleep f'r a bit. Tell Shaun...t'stay safe, for me. Be careful. Nnngh...l-look after y'self, Ethan. S-Stay safe."

He hung up the call, letting his phone drop to the carpet as his eyes slipped closed again. "Help. S'what I should've said. Help. Please. Help me."

A/N: If anyone's interested, the following songs helped inspire this chapter: "Before the Storm", Silent Theory; "Binge", Papa Roach; "Fall to Pieces", Velvet Revolver.

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