Disclaimer: I think you could guess what goes here. Not mine.
A/N: Keith Urban inspired this one with his Nobody Drinks Alone song from his Be Here album. I'm also having difficulty with stupid asterisks, so every two paragraphs is a new person, until the last three. If you're confused, just tell me, I'll try and clear it up.
He sits and looks at the TV before him, mute images flashing across the screen. He reaches over and takes the glass in his hand, hardly feeling it's weight anymore. He knocks it back and sets it back down on the table. The TV is the only light in the room, colors glowing on the walls and lighting his face, illuminating the stubble and the near empty bottle in front of him.
Reaching forward, he grasps the bottle and pours himself another glass, knocking this one back just as easily as the last. Setting the bottle and glass down again, he continues to look at the screen, not really comprehending the images, just staring at it. It's better than what's in his mind. Better than the thoughts he's having right now and he gladly numbs them the only way he knows how.
The bartender looks at the man sitting at his bar. His tie is loosened and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. The noise around him doesn't stir the man from his daze. Instead, he continues to stare at something only he can see. The bartender shakes his head, knowing the look too well, especially on this particular face. For he usually comes in when he's had a rough day, a rough case.
The man notices the bartender in front of him and calls for another drink. The bartender knows better than to suggest he's had a little much. Last time he did that, the man near bit his head off for trying to tell him what to do. After that he let the man be, not wanting to get on the wrong side of a cop with a gun. But he did always call the man a cab, making sure his slim form made it into the car in one piece. One physical piece, that is.
She hates herself for it. For sitting here and drinking to dull the pain. For doing what she swore she would never do. For doing what her mother always did. She hates herself for it, but still tips the bottle back, pouring a little more poison down her throat. She knows it's wrong, knows she shouldn't be doing this to herself, but she doesn't know what else to do. This isn't a case she feels she can talk about. There's just something about it that won't allow her mouth to open, unless it's to drink a little more
She's sitting in her kitchen, watching the clock on her stove change slowly in the darkness. Bright green numbers staring back at her, daring her to watch it forever. Daring her to remember. And as she tries to resist it's power, her mother's face swims through her mind and she tries in vain to make it disappear. To make it all go away, but it only becomes stronger until she's falling down the subway steps with her mother. Falling into blackness.
His badge sits in front of him, glaring at him. A bottle of beer in his hand, he stares right back at it, wondering what made him go into this. What made him even fathom joining this unit. He stares at his badge, thinking everything he's worked for is worthless. Nothing will ever get better. There will always be another rapist, another child molester out there and no matter how many they bring in, there's always a hundred more waiting for them at Hell's gate.
Every victim is a trip to hell, and he wonders how many more miles he's got left until he doesn't make it back. How many more trips does he have in him before he can't come back. When he's seen so much that he can't take it anymore. When death would be better than this job. And every case makes him think a little more and every victim, every body, makes him doubt it a little more. One day, he's sure, he's going to hand it all in. He's going to leave that glaring badge on his captain's desk and never come back.
He leans back in his chair, trying his hardest to ignore what he knows is in that drawer. Trying to not look at that drawer, because he knows if he opens it, everything will spiral down and he'll never get back up. Instead, he stares out his open door to the empty squad room, vacant desks seeming lonely without their occupants. He could bet where any one of them are and probably guess right. Not that he really wants to, but he could.
He could bet Elliot was sitting at home, drinking and watching a mute television. He could bet John was at a bar, thinking of his past as he tries to drink it away. He could bet Olivia was drinking at home, thinking of her mother and hating herself for acting exactly like her. And he could bet Fin was at home, drinking a beer and wondering if it ever means anything. And here he was, the only sober one, and wishing with every inch of him he wasn't. Wishing he could go home and suppress this pain and be oblivious to it all for a while.
But he'd been there too many times to go back again.