Title: - Accomplice.
Author: - Katt.
E-mail: - kattanonhotmial.com
Rating: - PG-13.
Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know.
Archive: - Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive.
Disclaimers: - I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX. The song "Clocks" is by "Coldplay", and written by Berryman/Buckland/Champion/Martin.
Author's Notes: - This is an episode-tag for "Partners", and is dedicated to Whipper because I know she likes episode-tags so much. I hope she enjoys this one.
Accomplice.
"Lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I tried to swim against
Have brought me down upon my knees
Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing.
Come out of things unsaid
Shoot an apple off my head
And a trouble that can't be named
A tiger's waiting to be tamed."
Dutch only half listened to the song on the car radio. His hand itched to reach out and turn it off, but he didn't think he'd be able to stand the silence that would follow.
He gazed out of his windshield watching the sun disappearing over the distant horizon. The beach in front of him was deserted. The surface of the sea as calm and flat as a sheet of glass. The small breakers that ran part way up the beach, and then retreated, formed an almost hypnotic rhythm. He watched and tried to lose himself in the steady motion, tried to clear his mind, but it wasn't working.
His mind always seemed to be in turmoil these days. The catalogue of mistakes he was making building up, his conscience always nagging away at him. Each mistake chipping away at his fragile self-image. He'd always relied on his intellect, prided himself on his intelligence. Christ knows he didn't have much else going for him, but he knew he was smart. He could get into the criminal's mind, psyche them out. Play games with their heads until they told him what he wanted to know. However, it seemed he'd been fooling himself.
There had been his mistake that had cost little Mayda Reyes so much. His arrogance had meant she'd had her innocence ripped away from her and her life forever altered.
That was typical though. That was the pattern that seemed to be emerging. Other people, innocents that he was supposed to protect, they were the ones that always suffered for his fuck-ups. Never him. Oh, he had sleepless nights, and nightmares that would wake him up drenched in sweat, his heart beating so hard in his chest it would feel like it was about to explode. What nightmares did Little Mayda suffer though? Christ he deserved every horror filled image that sprang from his subconscious, and haunted him during the still nights.
It was no wonder Claudette didn't trust him anymore. She wouldn't let him near her arson case. Everytime he asked her about it she just changed the subject. She certainly didn't want his help, and he couldn't blame her. His touch was like poison. Everything he came near these days ended up damaged or dead. Just ask Kayla LeSeur.
It had been Kayla's funeral today. That was why he'd pestered Mark Stone to swap his day off with him, so that he would have today off instead of Saturday, so that he could go to Kayla's funeral.
He hadn't told Claudette that he was going. He knew she'd get that disapproving look in her eyes. The look he thought he was seeing more and more often these days. The look that told him he was turning out to be a disappointment to her as a partner.
Of course he'd stayed well back. He could hardly go up to her grief-stricken family, her mom and dad and two younger sisters, and introduce himself as the detective who was so busy trying to prove what an expert he was in abnormal psychology that he'd allowed their daughter, their sister, to die alone, afraid and in pain in the trunk of a car. Jesus, for all he knew she'd died in the car park of The Barn. Kayla had died a hundred feet away from where he was so busy trying to prove how fucking clever he was.
"Confusion never stops
Closing walls and ticking clocks
Gonna come back and take you home
I could not stop but you now know, singing.
Come out upon my seas
Cursed missed opportunities
Am I a part of the cure?
Or am I part of the disease?"
The words of the song caught his attention, and Dutch finally reached out and switched off the radio. He bit down on his lip and suppressed the tears he could feel welling up in his eyes. He didn't deserve to be allowed to cry. He didn't deserve the outlet, the comfort, his tears would bring him.
It had been his job to find Kayla. To save her and give her back to her family, alive. Instead he'd failed, and given them a corpse to grieve over and to bury.
He squeezed his eyes shut and leant forward, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. A wave of guilt at his failure rushed through him.
He felt like Bob and Marcy's accomplice. They'd sucked him into their games, their twisted world, and he'd let them. They'd used him and played him for a fool.
Once again an innocent had suffered because of him. He had to do something, but he wasn't sure what. He just knew he no longer trusted his instincts.
Taking a deep breath Dutch straightened up. It was getting dark, a couple of early evening stars already visible in the darkening sky. He had better head home, change out of his funeral suit, and try to get some rest. He had to be in work tomorrow at 7 a.m., although for once he wasn't looking forward to the prospect. He wasn't sure about himself, he wasn't sure about his ability to do his job, and Dutch found that realization frightened him.