Boidkuck week 2021 | Day 1 Happy ending/Fix-it/Marriage
Title: For just this once everybody lives
Pairing : Bill Boid/Francis Kuck
Rating : M
Summary : Boid's thoughts right after the death of El Raccoon. There will always be something that breaks down and make him realise he has control over nothing.
Tags : fix-it, suicidal ideation, unrequited love, referenced/implied alcohol abuse, bad use of prescribed medication, angst, only one bed, cuddling, in media res, post episode 3
Author's note : My written French is a mess, it's the reason why I write in English. In case you'd want to translate my RPZ fics just send me a message on twitter or tumblr and we can figure something out. (link is on profile)
Mon Français écrit pue la mort alors j'écris en Anglais. Si jamais y a des gens qui veulent faire des trads envoyez-moi un message sur twitter ou tumblr on s'arrangera.
The window is bleak, unnerving. Dawn looks terrible from where he stands. It doesn't fit the mood, it doesn't fit any feeling, it doesn't fit any right feeling. Where his chest is, is an open cavity, yet he is unable to reach inside. He realises his hands are trembling. Or at least one of them is. The one that pulled the trigger. It's natural, it's logical, he's fired many guns before. He knows the recoil and the repetitive motion of it. He knows their sounds.
He sits down on the backrest of his couch as the sweat settles on his back. He doesn't know how he made it back here. His feet feel too heavy. His guilt too strong. His mind goes to places, to everywhere at once. Yet he feels nothing. He wonders that if he had clocked out hours ago, that maybe things wouldn't have happened. His body aches from the bruises of gunshot wounds against Kevlar and the straining feeling of having ran around Los Santos all day.
He is hurting. But he cannot reach his emotions. They are dulled, hidden, he felt so much anger only hours before… so much fear. It rakes against his heart, his mind. He can't breathe.
Matéo Sanchez would never breathe again.
Nothing prepares you for it. For your first fuck ups, your first rejections, your coming out to your parents that is only met with disdain and destruction. Nothing prepares you because when it comes there is always something that throws you off, or in. There will always be something that breaks it down, that makes you realise you have control over nothing. But this isn't about words. This isn't about plans. This is about having adapted wrong.
Feelings that overpower logic. It's pain. It's stress. It's the swallowed feeling of change. Once the fog is lifted, if it ever lifts, if it ever goes away. He emerges wrong. He still hears Maison's pleas and prayers. He still feels the rain that fell down hours before. He still smells the grass and the grazing of the bushes against his uniform as he leads them to the front door of the prison.
He lead wrong.
He lead wrong and should have quit when he started thinking it.
The anxiety is still in his throat, in his mind. He hasn't calmed down enough. But his legs wont move. He shrugs off his jacket. His weapon isn't on safety and when it falls on the floor he hopes it goes off.
It doesn't.
He feels nothing.
His fingers go to his hair. There is a headache forming between his temples. His phone rings. He doesn't look who it is. He shuts it down. Throws it against the wall. It keeps on ringing while the screen is broken to pieces. It doesn't help. Seems like he isn't angry. He's tired. But that's a body function and not, in fact, an emotion.
He should have clocked out.
He stands up. His feet tingle. It doesn't feel right. He still hears it. The orders, the pleading, the shots, the pain. Nobody listens to him. They don't want him anyway. The whole LSPD broke down and he is unable to steer the broken ship back to safe shore. Things would change without him. But for the better. And Francis ? Francis would stay himself: Still good at his job, still charismatic enough to inspire crowds, still dramatically unavailable. He would be able to evolve, to become the great man he's meant to be once Bill is gone. One that would have taken another decision. One that wouldn't have panicked. One that wouldn't be infatuated with his second in command.
It takes a few steps to get to the liquor cabinet. His limbs feel too long and his clothes too sticky. He opens it to grab the whiskey decanter. He shrugs off his shoes when he drags himself to the bathroom. He doesn't stumble.
The bathroom is ages away and his walk gives already too much time to think. And when he opens the medicine cabinet after almost letting the decanter fall down in the bathtub he doesn't dare to look at the mirror in front of him. His Klonopin is expired and he doesn't care. He downs one with the decanter in hand.
Tomorrow is another day.
A day that he doesn't want to see coming. But will. He would face it, regardless of the pain or the weight on his shoulders. Regardless of the guilt. He wants to be angry and feels it thrum under his skin. But the shame in his bones makes it hard to reach. Francis didn't listen and that was his fault. He goes to his bedroom. The curtains aren't drawn and the morning light feels oppressive, out of place, unwelcome. It is a reflection of the wrongness. People will go about their day, live their lives, rob banks and fight. Bill Boid's day is stuck, like a vinyl record that reverberates and scratches the silence between the walls clean in a silent scream.
Gravity pulls him, he leaves the decanter on his drawer. His face falls between the unmade bed still reeking of sweat and Francis' aftershave since they are still sharing a bed.
He wants the day to end. But his longest journey doesn't seem to be over. His sob breaks his throat, spills from his lips. The taste of whiskey burns his stomach and it sticks to his mouth. Tears fall. They fall for a while.
When the dark in his room comes; When he drifts in and out of sleep; When he wakes up and wonders where he is; he feels strong arms around his waist. They hold him. Bill doesn't know what to think of it. He wants to shrug him off. He can't. He's too drowsy, too sick, too high to be able to say something of it. Francis holds him and Bill refuses to cry. He wouldn't appear even weaker than he is. He doesn't want to hear the words that would excuse him killing a man. He doesn't want to hear the words of 'My Captain' wrapped in a soft voice that will only fill him with bittersweet feelings.
Even within the fog it will hurt.
He wants to shut Francis right up when he feels his Lieutenant is about to talk. He doesn't have the strength for it. The desire to fall back asleep and the controlling tendrils of alcohol and Klonopin has a vicious grip on his heart.
He hears them though. The words. He hears them loud and clear.
"He made it through. I don't know how it happened but Raccoon made it through."