I blame my friend for this... she finally got me to watch Shutter Island, and of course it rekindled my Jackie Earle-Haley fetish, and Jackie's character burrowed his way into my brain... And I blame DamionStarr for writing AWESOME Shutter Island fic and inspiring me to try this.
Characters belong to Dennis Lehane, or Martin Scorsese, since it's movie-verse.
Help me if you can
It's just that this
Is not the way I'm wired so could you please
Help me understand
Why you're giving into all these
Reckless dark desires
You're lying to yourself again
Suicidal imbecile
Think about it
Put it on a faultline
What will it take to get
Through to you precious
Why would I
Why would I wanna watch you
Disconnect and self-destruct
One bullet at a time
What's your rush now
Everyone will
Have his day to die
~The Outsider, A Perfect Circle
~.~
The man who was Teddy Daniels marches sullenly down the corridor of Ward C, casting irritated glances up at the guards that flank either side of him. At first he tried appealing to their sense of decency, and when that didn't work he opted for insulting them to their faces, which hasn't earned him anything beyond an angry shove or two.
He shakes his head, feeling the sedatives retreat from his mind. Nothing permanent, of course- no lobotomy for him. Damn Chuck for blabbing to Cawley and damn Cawley's bleeding heart. If Andrew wants a lobotomy he'll have a goddamn lobotomy.
3 Days ago~
"You're not insane, Andrew," Cawley says, looking sympathetic, watching the ex-Marshall being led from the lighthouse after calling halt to the operation- in spite of protests from both Andrew and McPherson. "You've broken through the wall of your tragedy; now you have only to repair the damage."
One of the guards gives him another shove, directing him down the hall to his left. Long lines of cold stone walls, punctuated by the dark doorways of cells, bring to mind the dark streets of some unnamed city or ghost town. Only the steady drip of water and the occasional cry or moan from a patient echoes through the silence. Finally, they halt at the door to one of the cells- the one that, at first glance, appears to be empty.
"You've got to go back," the doctor tells him with a kind, this-is-for-your-own-good smile. "You've confronted what your wife did. You've started to face what you've done in the real world. You have to reconcile what you've done in here. It will help you to heal; help you to move on." He places a hand on his patient's shoulder, reassuring like a good psychiatrist. "Don't worry. The orderlies will be just down the hall in case something happens."
"You mean in case he attacks me?"
"He won't attack you, I'm sure." Something about Cawley's tone makes Laeddis turn to look at him.
"You mean in case I attack him again."
One of the guards fumbles with they keys, the jangling sound setting off the inmates to the left and right of the cell. Their howling peters out when the other guard slams the bars of their doors with his nightstick. The first guard gets the door open, enters the cell to check its occupant.
"Jesus, Merle, he's been chewin' the jacket again," he calls over his shoulder to his associate in a heavy Southern twang. "Cut that out, ya dumb bastard!" There's a low thump, not unlike a shoe striking someone's side, followed by a bout of coughing and what might be a series of curses.
"Everything okay in there?" Merle calls in a bored tone, and the first guard replies that yeah, everything's fine, go ahead and send 'im in.
Merle gives Andrew a firm push and he takes the hint, stepping forward into the gloom of the small chamber, switching places with the guard as he steps out. The door swings shut and the two wardens begin their retreat to the end of the hall, leaving the prisoners.
Andrew turns apprehensively toward the vague shadow slouched in the far corner of the cell. The figure coughs once more, wet and hacking, before speaking.
"Ted, Ted, Teddy Ted Ted." His voice is like rusted nails over concrete.
"Don't call me that," Andrew says automatically.
"Well jeez, man, what the hell should I call you? Just pick whatever name pops into my head?"
"Andrew," he replies, still warily eyeing the darkness. "Call me Andrew."
"Nahh. I don't think I can call you that, Gallahad. Last time I called you that some jackass beat the crap outta me."
"I know, that's why I'm here-"
"Why are you here, Imhotep?" The figure shuffles but doesn't stand. "You're not crazy anymore; you're not like us. So when're they puttin' you on that ferry?"
"I dunno," Andrew shrugs, irritation creeping into his tone. "Soon, I guess."
"Soon, huh?" The prisoner coughs again- or maybe it's a laugh. "Well, I'm real happy for you, Sherlock."
"The hell is that supposed to mean?" It occurs to Laeddis that this conversation probably isn't going the way Cawley had intended, but he doesn't care.
"What do you think I mean, Zatuichi? You really think they're gonna just let you waltz back into society?" Another sound, and this time it's definitely a laugh. "You're a riot, man. You crack me up."
"You think I'm joking?" Irritation gives way to anger.
"Course you are. You're great at jokes." The harsh laughter twists his words into bitter amusement. "Remember that time- those times- you told me you were gonna get me outta here? Great joke. Fuckin' hilarious. You're a stand-up."
Guilt bites at the edges of anger. "Noyce-"
"Twitch," the voice grates. "You used to call me Twitches."
"Can't imagine why," Andrew mutters dryly.
"See? You're a crack-up. You don't remember? It was a good nickname; even the orderlies started callin' me Twitch."
"No," Laeddis closes his eyes, trying to recall, wondering if it actually happened. "I don't remember."
"That's a shame," Noyce sighs, falling silent.
The cell is quiet for a long moment, George's ragged breathing filling the emptiness. Andrew takes a step forward. "What did you mean? You don't think they'll let me leave?"
There's no response.
"Hey." Another step, bringing the hunched shape into sharper focus- still in darkness, but recognizable, curled in on itself. "I'm talkin' to you, Noyce."
The smaller man shifts but the silence continues.
"Noyce." Andrew bends down, aggravated but cautious. "George!" He reaches out and grabs hold of the inmate's shoulder, yanks him into the watery light-
-and immediately withdraws his hand as Noyce's appearance registers.
His face is still a patchwork of bruises- no surprise there, but some of them look suspiciously fresh, and there's a gash over one eyebrow that definitely wasn't there before. It's his body, however, that causes Andrew to recoil: Noyce's arms are contorted around his torso, bound in a straitjacket. The elbows of it are scraped bare, raw-rubbed skin showing through. It's obvious that the schizophrenic man has been biting through the sleeves like a fox in a snare; the cloth is shredded and bloody- proof that he hasn't been discriminating about using his teeth. His mouth is still red-stained, bits of thread and skin caught between his canines, which are bared in a pained snarl.
"Jesus," Andrew falls back onto the floor, pushing himself away.
Noyce snorts in derisive mirth, dried blood flaking from his crooked nose. "Yeah," he rasps, "That's about the reaction I was expecting."
"Jesus," Laeddis says again, for lack of a better response.
"Sorry, pal, he ain't here. Try the guy three cells down; he thinks he one of the Apostles. I forget which one."
"Noyce," the taller man shuffles forward once more, brows furrowed with concern and contrition. "You have to go to the medical wing. That shit will get infected. I'll-" He starts to stand. "I'll call the guard."
"Like hell!" The injured man snaps, scrambling back until he's pressed against the wall again. "You know what they do to people there, Leo?" His eyes shine out of the deep caverns of their sockets, a trapped, wild animal look. "You know what they do? Cut your head open and scoop the brains out and replace 'em with cotton and cobwebs and cut open your chest and put their little radios and microphones in-"
"Okay. Okay!" Andrew holds up both palms placatingly, slowly sitting back down. "Okay. I won't call the guard."
The schizophrenic shakes his head. "Not like they'd listen to you anyway."
"Why not? I thought I wasn't crazy anymore."
He cocks his head, shoulders still hunched defensively. "You're still here. If you're still here, you're still a patient. If you're still a patient, you're still crazy."
"It's scary that I understand you better than I understand the fuckin' doctors." Andrew almost smiles, exasperated and exhausted.
"Like I said," Noyce replies, and maybe it's a trick of the light but for a second- just a second- it looks like his blood-crusted lips twitch up at the corners. "Crazy. So why're you here, Crazy?"
"Oh." Laeddis drops his gaze, amusement fading. "Part of my 'rehab', I s'pose. Cawley wants me to... what'd he say... 'reconcile what I've done'. Apparently that involves talkin' to you."
George's eyes flick up, catching Andrew's, who notices for the first time just how shockingly blue they are. "I figured they were gonna take you to the lighthouse, give you the brain stab."
The taller man nods, looking away. "They were supposed to," he says bitterly. "But..."
"Cawley got cold feet? Or maybe he just realized you were playin' him."
Shrug. "Both, I guess."
The injured man pauses suddenly, sharp gaze snapping toward the door. "You hear that?" The terrible intensity in his voice makes the other patient turn and look, in spite of the fact that he can't hear anything.
"No..."
George's eyes stay locked on the bars for a long beat until Laeddis, concern rising, leans forward and raises a hand. "Hey."
Noyce's attention flicks back to him. "You don't hear it."
"No." He almost asks what 'it' is, but has a feeling that he doesn't want to know.
The jacket-bound man tilts back, squeezing himself into the corner once more, his eyes shuttered. "Huh."
Andrew watches him shrink, withdrawing from invisible monsters and sounds and god knows what, and after a moment he half-stands, shuffles across the space between them and crouches down next to him. The schizophrenic jumps slightly when their shoulders brush, turning to stare at the larger man. Cautiously, almost mechanically, the man who was Teddy Daniels brings his arm up and lets it rest around Noyce's shoulders.
The painfully thin man freezes instantly, his eyes still wide and locked onto Andrew's face. "The hell're you doin', Dom?"
"Reconciling."
George scoffs but doesn't move- though it's hard to say whether it's because he doesn't want to or because the jacket won't allow him. Or, Laeddis thinks, because he's afraid of what I might do if he pulls away.
"S'okay," he says quietly.
Noyce's wiry arms shift under his bloodstained sleeves, his knees slowly lowering. Andrew sighs tiredly and lets his head fall back against the cool stone of the wall. After a few quiet minutes, he feels the smaller man move, opens his eyes to see him biting determinedly at his sleeve, further shredding the flesh.
"Quit that," the ex-Marshall says, swatting at his companion's shoulder, careful not to hit any of his injuries. Surprisingly, Noyce stops, and Andrew feels him release a heavy breath.
"Thanks..." The lunatic's eyelids droop, and within minutes his head drops onto Laeddis' shoulder, his raspy breathing evening out.
"Y'know, I thought you said they were gonna take you to the lighthouse," Andrew comments in an offhand manner, trying to keep himself from relaxing too much in spite of how good it feels just to be holding another human being, just to feel another person's breath on his neck and know they're alive.
George nods against him. "Yeah," he responds sleepily, "They're takin' me tomorrow."
~.~
Please R&R and let me know any opinions, comments, etc!