Title: - Whispers of Immortality
Author: - Katt
E-Mail: - - T
Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know
Archive: - Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive
Disclaimers: - I don't any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX. The song "Afternoons and Coffeespoons" is performed by Crash Test Dummies and written by Brad Roberts. The title "Whispers of Immortality" is from the poem of the same name by T. S. Eliot.
Whispers of Immortality - Third Verse
"Maybe if I could do a play-by-play back
I could change the test results that I will get back
I've watched the summer evenings pass by
I've heard the rattle in my bronchi…
Someday I'll have a disappearing hairline
Someday I'll wear pyjamas in the daytime
Afternoons will be measured out
Measured out, measured with
Coffeespoons and T. S. Eliot."
Well, he'd made eight months, had in fact passed that mile stone just the day before. Yeah, eight months since his diagnosis and he was still here. Admittedly his remaining time was slipping away. Months had become weeks and were now down to days. It was his birthday next week, but Dutch knew he'd never see it. Still, he'd had the spring and the summer and he was grateful for that. The chemotherapy and radiation therapy had been doing their jobs and held back the rotting canker inside him for a little while. Now though the black spiders, the shadows, had won.
He was sitting up for an hour. The time spent out of his bed was getting less and less, as he grew weaker and the morphine doses grew stronger. The last dose he'd had was beginning to wear off. He could feel those burning talons back, ripping their way through his insides, making his breathing harder, shallower, making his mind a little slower as it was consumed by the razor sharp beast within him.
Trying to ignore the gnawing pain Dutch looked out through the window at the pleasant garden outside. He'd managed to stay at home until two weeks ago when he'd finally been forced to admit defeat and agree to come to the hospice. It was a nice place he had to admit, quiet and peaceful. He liked to think of it as a kind of halfway house. A stepping stone on his journey from his life, to…to whatever lay beyond.
Looking down at the book in his lap Dutch toyed with the idea of picking it up to read but decided that he felt too tired. That was perhaps the one good thing about all of this, he had finally been given a chance to catch up on his reading. Not the weighty academic tomes he'd usually felt obliged to read so that he could be as good a detective it was in his power to be. No, now he read all those books he'd always meant to read, all the books he'd always wanted to read. Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment" -- well, he might not be able to work anymore, but he was still a detective in his heart -- and poetry; Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas, T. S. Eliot... He hadn't read poetry since high school, and then only under protest. However, now he found it soothing and he wished he'd made more time to read it before he'd became ill.
He wondered what time it was. Claudette was due to visit this evening after work. He always looked forward to her visits; she'd been so good to him all through his illness. She'd always been there when he'd needed her, she held his hand when he was scared and in pain, held him when he was sick and had simply just been there when he'd cried. She'd never judged him or offered platitudes, just given silent support. As always, the perfect partner, the perfect friend.
He'd had lots of other visits though, not just from Claudette.
Captain Aceveda came to see him occasionally, although he always got the impression that the captain came because he felt it was his duty. He never stayed for long, always seemed to be on his way somewhere else and had just stopped in for a minute. He always seemed to hover by the door, and then they danced around each other. It was all perfectly choreographed, each of them knowing their steps to perfection. Aceveda asking how he was and Dutch telling him he was "feeling a little better" or "not too bad today". Lies, but they seemed to be what Aceveda want to hear so Dutch didn't really mind playing along.
Danny always came once a week, which both surprised and pleased him. He wanted her to come, but felt a little guilty for his selfishness when she was there. Although she tried to hide it he could always see the sadness in her eyes when she looked at him. He often thought it would be better for her if he told her not to come anymore, so she wouldn't have to see him deteriorating every time she visited, but he never did. He couldn't quite get the words out of his mouth. Selfish or not he wanted her to come, he wanted to bask for a little while in her beauty and her warmth and since he was dying he had decided that maybe he could be a little selfish every now and then. One thing that always made him smile when Danny came was when she'd tell him that her partner had asked her to tell Dutch that he was praying for him. Someone should tell the guy that it didn't seem to be working.
Despite his amusement he did rather envy Officer Lowe his faith. It must be comforting to have something to cling onto when the whole world seemed to be so dark. Dutch wished he had the comfort of belief. The promise that this wasn't it, that there was an after-life, a paradise waiting for him. He wasn't so sure though and that saddened him. Sometimes as he looked at the world he thought that there must be something out there, that all that beauty and diversity couldn't have just come about by some freak accident of fate. That if all the evil he'd seen during his life was real, then maybe it was balanced out by some kind of omnipotent force for good. Then his scientific side would kick in and he'd think about evolution, natural selection and survival of the fittest and it didn't seem that God had any place in all that rationalisation.
He was so tired, more exhausted than he'd ever been in his whole life. He'd vowed to fight until the end, but now he didn't feel as if he had any fight left in him. Death was waiting for him; close by, cold and watchful, growing impatient. Maybe that was why he had no strength left, maybe the time was right, maybe he could finally rest. He'd certainly come to terms with things, tried hard to find peace in acceptance. When he'd first been diagnosed he'd been so angry at the unfairness of it all. Why him? He didn't want to die, while he wasn't perfect he'd tried to lead a good life, never hurt anybody on purpose, so why him? Bastards like Sean Taylor, who were evil, who hurt and used others for their own amusement were allowed to live and he'd been condemned to death.
As time had gone by, however, Dutch had realised that fairness had nothing to do with it. The universe was intrinsically unfair, he already knew that so why should this be any different? He'd once said to Danny in a fit of remorse and a short-lived need to confess, "At least I had a childhood, I lived. It's pathetic to complain about it now…" He'd come to realise that those words were true. At the hospital he'd seen children dying -- Christ in his job he'd seen murdered children! -- he should be grateful for the time he had be given, not mourning for a future that didn't even exist, an illusion.
He'd had his spring and summer, his eight months, and he was tired. Reaching up he gently pulled out the nasal cannula that was supplying him with oxygen, and with a shaking hand he pushed it from his head. Settling back in his chair he stared out at the garden, turning his face towards the sun he closed his eyes, and smiled, as he felt an icy cold hand slip into his, and with a sigh Dutch let go.
"Afternoons will be measured out
Measured out, measured with
Coffeespoons and T. S. Eliot."
