See Chapter One for story info and disclaimer. This story is dedicated to Katt. Warning: This is the part where the child abuse (sexual) I warned you about in chapter one becomes graphic. No gory details, but still... sensitive readers be aware.

Chapter Five.

Curled up in his bed the little boy engaged in a routine that was as old as his memory stretched. A routine that he -- against better judgement -- hoped would somehow make him invisible under the heavy blankets. He was still young enough to believe that if he just made himself small enough, if he squeezed his eyes shut hard enough, held his breath long enough he would some night just disappear from his room and wake up somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

A sound outside his room made his eyes flash open and he stared at the light that shone through from underneath the door. He felt not very unlike a small animal staring at the headlights of an approaching car. Knowing that something bad was going to happen, yet unable to stop it. That was worse than anything. Including being toilet-papered by the older kids at school and having your kitten disappear mysteriously after it had peed on your father's shoes.

He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed -- wasn't really old enough to have a good understanding of time yet -- but when he finally felt able to relax slightly his lungs were aching from lack of air and all his muscles felt weak and trembly. More than anything else he wanted to sleep but he couldn't. Not yet. Not while he could still hear his parents outside.

Not while his father was still awake.

Closing his eyes again he tried to remember the words his teacher had given them to learn as homework until Friday. Some of them he already knew how to spell but a few had been really tricky. He looked longingly at his schoolbag but didn't dare to get out of bed to fetch his book. Not that he would have been able to read in the darkness anyway.

It had been easier before when he'd been allowed to keep the door open a crack. The light that had came in from the hallway had been just enough for him to be able to read in. But a few months ago he'd been sloppy and his father had found a book hidden under the pillow.

Since then the door to his bedroom had been firmly shut during the nights. Except for, of course, when-

A squeaking sound, quickly identified by the little boy as the door to his parent's bedroom, kept him from finishing that thought. He tensed up and prayed desperately to God to let that be all for tonight. To let his mom and dad go to bed quietly and please God stay there. He'd be a good boy, he'd do his homework and follow the rules and he'd never...

"Holland?" A hoarse whisper from outside the door stopped the quiet praying. "Are you awake?"

Eyes squeezed shut. He didn't breath. Didn't move. Didn't even think. But his father still saw him. His father still opened the door to the bedroom and walked up to his bed while breathing heavily as if he'd just missed the schoolbus and had been forced to run after it.

Even without looking the little boy knew exactly what was happening. Every sound -- the faint sound of metal scraping against metal as his father removed his belt, the rustle of his clothes as they fell to the floor, the protesting noise his bed made as the heavy man sat down by his side -- had been forever imprinted into his mind years ago.

"Holland?"

And he was robbed of the protection of the heavy blankets. Robbed of the protection of his pyjama bottoms. And robbed of the protection of feigning sleep as strong, warm hands shook him ruthlessly.

"Time to wake up."

***

Vic was restless. Stalking around angrily wasn't enough to release his pent-up frustration and there was really nothing he could find in the apartment to distract himself fully with. The books were all boring and besides, reading always gave him a head-ache. There were nothing interesting in the mail, there was nothing edible in the kitchen although it was obvious that Dutch liked to cook -- he'd never seen a single man with so much cooking utensils -- and there were no embarrassing messages left on the answering machine.

He was tempted to get out, just for a minute or two to get some fresh air, but he didn't dare to leave Dutch unattended. It just took a few minutes for a man to drown in his own puke and there was still a risk that Dutch had really had too much to drink. Vic had seen more people than he cared to count die of alcohol poisoning and didn't care to add the name of a fellow police officer to the list.

He had just pulled out Guiness Book of World Records to check out the "Human Body" section when he finally picked up on a strange sound coming from the bedroom.

"Yo, Dutch! You awake in there?"

When his only answer was another muffled moan Vic quickly put down the book and hurried over to the door to the bedroom. Dutch was still on the bed and still out but that was pretty much the only thing that had remained the same since he'd last checked on the man only a few minutes earlier.

When he'd left the room Dutch had been arranged in the recovery position, pillows piled up behind his back just in case he'd tip over. He'd also been still and unresponsive.

Now however he had somehow managed to kick away the pillows, rolled over on his back and get pretty much stuck in the blankets. It would have been a rather hilarious picture, Vic thought, if it hadn't been so apparent that Dutch was caught up in what was either a mild seizure or one hell of a nightmare.

A seizure would mean having to call for an ambulance. A phone call that would mark the end of Dutch's career as a police officer. And put a permanent stain on Claudette's and Danny's records.

Getting closer to the bed he quickly decided that it was the later and let out a lungful of air in an explosive sigh. Nightmares he could deal with. Nightmares were nothing compared to headlines like 'Detective drinks himself into stupor while on duty.'

"Time to wake up, Dutch," Vic muttered as he climbed on to the bed and reached out to grab onto the man's arms to wake him.

***

Strong hands held him down, restrained him even though it wasn't really necessary. Not anymore. He'd learned to keep still and don't fight back.

***

Dutch was surprisingly strong for a lanky guy wearing suits all the time, Vic noticed with a grimace as he fought to keep the man on top of the bed. Usually when trying to keep someone down he'd just grab onto a limb and apply enough pressure to make them seriously re-think trying to move without permissionn. But something told him that in the state that Dutch was currently in the man didn't have enough awareness to stop moving.

"For God's sake," he cursed as Dutch scratched the back of his hand, "be still!"

***

His father's body tensed before he growled out his pleasure and fell over him, the weight of a full man much too heavy for the small boy.

***

Dutch suddenly stopped moving all together and the only thing that stopped Vic from reaching out to make sure that the man still had a pulse was the fact that he could feel Dutch's chest rise and fall underneath him.

***

"That's my good boy," his father whispered as he finally rolled off him and instead just laid panting beside him.

While his father was unusually talkative during his late night visits, the little boy never said a word. The only sounds that ever escaped his firmly pressed together lips were involuntary whimpers and the occasional sob.

Inside of him a thousand voices joined together in a loud wail, screaming no so loudly that he sometimes thought his head would explode. In his mind he begged his father to stop. In his mind he fought back.

In the real world he just laid limply in his father's perverted embrace.

***

Just as suddenly as Dutch had stopped moving he began twisting again, almost throwing Vic off him in the process. Cursing angrily he grabbed on to the man again, swearing to himself that the trio responsible for putting him in this situation -- Danny, Claudette and Dutch -- was going to buy him, his team, his family and his fucking neighboors a three course meal for this.

***

Curled up in his bed the little boy engaged in a routine that was as old as his memory stretched. A routine that he -- against better judgement -- hoped would somehow make him invisible under the heavy blankets.

***

"No, not again," Dutch suddenly whimpered. "Please. Stop. Don't touch me. Please. Don't, dad."

As soon as the last word registered Vic let go of Dutch's arms and pulled back. A thousand thoughts -- none of them pleasant -- raced through his mind as he stared down at the agitated man on the bed, a mix of shock and concern on his face. As soon as Dutch realized that he was free the man curled up tightly, the tall, lanky body suddenly nothing more than a small huddle on the bed.

It didn't take Vic more than a few seconds to put two and two together, no matter how little he liked the answer he ended up with. Although the details were less than clear -- Yeah, sure it's unclear. Yesterday the man handled a bad case where a young girl was raped and today he gets himself drunk and when you get into bed to help him he cries out for his daddy to stop touching him. If that's unclear then I'm a crossdressing pig! -- it was obvious that whatever was wrong with Dutch, it didn't really have anything to do with Danny.

So why had she lied to him?

Frowning darkly he pulled out his cell phone.