Title: Tears From a Star (2/4)
Author: X_tremeroswellian
Email: X_tremeroswellian@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters belong to John Wells, Edward Allen Bernero, NBC and a bunch of other people I have no affiliation with whatsoever. No money is being made; please don't sue.
Rating: R for language, violence and content.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including "The Long Guns."
Summary: It's all about the choices we make.
Distribution: My site Only Time, 55-HQ, fanfiction.net, anywhere else that TW fics are archived.
Category: Alternate ending for "The Long Guns."
Subcategories: Angst, angst and more angst
Feedback: Please
Author's Note: All during the last 20 minutes of "Long Guns" I tried to figure out how it was going to end. This is one of the ending ideas I had. Oh, and originally this was going to be a one parter, but now I've come to the conclusion that there will be four all together.
"Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices."
-Alfred A. Montapert
Tears From a Star (Part Two: Wreckage)
I killed him.
I've taken a life before--one other time, a couple years back. Some scumbag that would have killed me or Faith or Davis or Sully or anyone who had gotten in his path if he'd have had the chance to kill them. I didn't feel bad about it. Not really. The only reason it bothered me at all was because it upset Faith. I still remember her words. "You let a man die today," she told me later. I didn't understand why she was upset. I didn't have a reason to feel guilty. The guy was a lowlife nobody who tried to kill us. He didn't deserve to live. I did the world a favor.
But this?
This is different. This isn't even -comparable- to that.
I killed a man, who for as long as I can remember, I looked up to. I wanted to be just like him. He was a good cop, a good man. Until one day it just got to be too much and he snapped.
I keep wondering what I could have done differently. What I should have said or done that would have changed the final outcome. I don't know what it would have been. But maybe one of these days I'll be sitting here on my couch and the answer will hit me. Not that it really matters.
It's like Hobart said; you can't change the past, but you can change the course of the future with the decisions you make today.
I've come to realize that I don't want to be like Hobart after all. I don't want to end up like he did. But I can't help thinking it's inevitable anyway. I mean, look at me; look at my life. I'm pretty fucked up already. Everyone thinks so.
I've spent my entire life trying to do the right thing. I've tried to help people by chasing after the bad guys and keeping them from hurting innocent people. But the harder I try, the longer I chase, the more futile it all seems. There are too many of them. I'm just not seeing the point anymore. Really, how much difference have I made? How many people have I -actually- helped?
Ma once told me I was a good man. She's not speaking to me anymore. Not after I arrested Mikey for running dope. It's not like I -wanted- to arrest him. He's my kid brother. I love him. But what other choice did I have? Part of me hoped that a little jail time would help him straighten his life out, get turned around, do the right thing for a change. So maybe one of us wasn't a loser. But as it turns out, he's just another Boscorelli fuck-up.
I can't help him. If I can't even help my own brother, my own flesh and blood, how am I supposed to help anyone?
And how many people have I helped to get hurt?
Like that girl a few weeks ago...Shaquana. I let her get raped because I thought she was a hooker. I could have stopped that bastard from hurting her if I'd have just taken the time to -see- what was really happening. Instead, I assumed I already knew what was happening.
How many times did I let my dad hurt my mom? I should never have believed him, I should never have let him back in our house. But I did. Time after time. I never learned. I never protected her.
I thought I could help Hobart. I thought maybe I could actually help someone I cared about for a change. Instead, I killed him.
And then there's Faith.
I don't know what's happened between us. We were partners, and I always thought of us as friends. She knows more about me than anybody. And she's never walked away from me. Sure, she's gotten annoyed and even pissed off at me more times than I can count, but, shit. What do you expect? We spend most of our time together trapped in a damned squad car. But I've always assumed that she knew I was there for her. I've told her as much, more than once.
But she didn't tell me she was sick. She has cancer and she didn't tell me; not until she felt like she had to. Not until she felt guilty because she was too sick to back me up and I wound up getting shot because of it.
I don't blame her for that; I really don't. I knew she was sick. She had practically begged me to go back to the station house because she wasn't feeling well.
But I didn't listen. It was my mistake. I saw she wasn't feeling well; I heard her saying she was too sick to chase the suspect, but I didn't listen. At least that time it was only me who got hurt.
When she told me she had cancer, I was shocked, hurt, and angry. I didn't understand at the time why she hadn't told me sooner. But I get it now. It's because there's something wrong with -me.- I look at a person and only see what's visible on the outside. I hear the words that someone says but I don't take the time to -listen- to what's behind them. Not until it's too late.
I mean, looking back over these last few months, I realize she had been acting differently all along. Quieter, more distracted. I did ask her about it a couple times, but she'd just shrugged it off and said she was fine. And I had believed her.
God, how stupid am I, anyway? Everything about her was screaming that something wasn't right, but I just chalked it up to mood swings. It's no wonder she didn't want to tell me. She probably thought I wouldn't even care.
I do care. When I'm totally honest with myself, I can admit that Faith's been the one and only stable person in my life--ever. She's always been there when I needed her. And the very thought that she might die--because of cancer or a bullet or any number of other things--terrifies me. It scares me to think that in an instant the only person who really -knows- me could be gone.
She almost was.
And you know what the worst part of it is?
The worst part of it is that it would have been my fault.
She wouldn't have been there at all if it weren't for me. If I hadn't 'tried to play hero' that day as Hobart called it, she wouldn't have even been there to get shot in the first place.
The doctors said she was going to be fine. It would take her awhile to recover, but she would be all right.
It's been six days.
I haven't left my apartment since I got home that night. Sully, Davis, Doc and Kim--they've all called and left messages on my machine, and even tried to come by a few times. Hell, Jimmy Dohrety even called a couple times, and that guy can't stand me.
It's been six days since Hobart told me I had to make a choice.
Six days since I killed him, and nearly got my partner killed.
It's been six days and I can still feel their blood on my hands.
Hobart told me that night that he should just shoot me before I screwed up the lives of everyone who loves me. Little did he know he was already too late for that.
But he also said I had the choice to alter the course of the future. And that's what I'm going to do. No one I care about is ever going to get hurt because of me again.
Because I quit.