Breach of Faith

Fleeterberry

Disclaimer: I don't own them

TW for gun violence, hospital/ICU, character(s) death, mention of suicide, unkind towards religion, throwing a priest under a bus, Lewis arc, also a fairly substantial amount of alcohol consumption

"And miles from where you are

I lay down on the cold ground and

I pray that something picks me up

And sets me down in your warm arms"

-Set Fire to the Third Bar, Snow Patrol

Thursday, June 8, 2023

Morning

It's funny, he thinks, the random thoughts that run through your head when you're pretty sure you're dying. He ought to be thinking about a whole host of other things right now, but the only thing he can focus on is his crystal clear memory of getting dressed this morning and being in a rush because he was hungover and late from oversleeping and completely preoccupied with the unmitigated disaster of the night before and there was only one pair of clean dress socks left in his drawer and when he pulled them on, his big toe popped right through the worn-thin fabric and if he'd had five minutes he could have changed his clothes and put on jeans and sneakers and worn the clean white socks, but no, he was late and so he just pulled on his shoe over the torn sock and hoped he'd remember to do his laundry later.

And now he's lying on the ground probably bleeding out and thinking the ME will examine his dead body and think he's too poor to buy decent socks or that he's just become that distracted old man who wears socks with holes in the toes and worn out clothes because he's given up and he just hopes the ME isn't someone he knows.

His mind wanders, it's hard to stay focused on anything except the embarrassment of his sock situation, but other things do occur to him. He's afraid of dying, not in the way that it ever prevented him from doing dangerous shit, but in the way everyone is when they really think it's over and he has those thoughts of how he'd really like to see his kids one more time and see his grandkids grow up and he hates that Eli will be so young and have lost both parents and he recognizes his mother won't survive long without him because he was always her favorite and he knows that. He worries about Whelan too, the younger man's labored breathing the only sound that's come from him since they landed in this position and Elliot isn't even quite sure what position it is except that they'd been on the porch when the shooting started and now they're on the ground several feet below the porch and he'd had enough time to draw his weapon that was before the fall and now he has no idea where his gun might be and fuck Whelan is heavy, but he's sure the other man is unconscious and bleeding and his dead weight is contributing to why Elliot can't move. He's stubbornly not looking at Evans, the man who'd only joined their squad two days earlier, the man Elliot had complained to Bell about having to babysit, the man whose body is half hanging off the porch, his lifeless eyes staring blankly down at his coworkers while blood pools on each of four steps between Evans' body and the ground.

Elliot is still hungover and possibly still a little drunk - he'd had a lot of alcohol the previous night - and somehow he's thinking about how fucking bright it is out here and how he's trapped staring up at the damn sun without any way to shield his eyes because he absolutely can't move, not even to turn his head. There are sirens in the distance and he hopes they're coming to help because a fleeting sensible thought occurs to him as he realizes that none of the three of them had a chance to radio for backup and they're all completely helpless and, for the moment at least, two of them are still alive, and there's a goddamn asshole with an assault rifle, nothing to lose, and all the advantage. But the thought barely forms before Elliot remembers his torn sock and once again, he's mortified.

He's not sure if the nausea is from the hangover, the fear that he's about to be executed, or the excruciating pain that seems to be radiating through his entire body. It could be that the more he tries to not see Evans', the more that's where his eyes are drawn. It could be that Whelan's breathing is slowing down, the rasp becoming thicker and louder and wetter and blocking out the sound of the siren approaching. It could be the guilt that he should have been in Evans' place right now, he's the most experienced of the bunch and the alpha of the group and he should have been the first out of the car and the first to knock on the door and the one whose body was blocking the others as the bastard came out shooting, but he was hungover and slow and preoccupied and dragging his feet when they'd pulled up to the house was instead was the last one up the steps instead of the first.

He knows he should be dead right now, free of the hell that has become his life, spared having to witness the fallout of his whole fucking life full of mistakes.

And fuck he can't take this stillness, this quiet, this time to think because he doesn't want to think about last night and how it was the last time he'll see Olivia even if he does survive and he's distracted for a moment wondering if she'll be upset or glad that he's dead and he realizes he doesn't have a single fucking idea anymore except he suspects she'll be happy to be rid of him once and for all because the way she'd left him last night should have told him plenty except he was trying to drown out the notion of the situation she'd hinted at that he wouldn't want to know and the feeling of her palm cracking him across the face and the way she'd stormed away and hadn't looked back when he called after her and that was why he'd doubled down on the whiskey, draining the bottle even though he'd already been solidly drunk before she'd slapped him and he sees it now, how having that first drink when he got in from work the night before had started a domino chain that resulted in alienating Olivia and at least one, probably three, deaths.

He blinks against the blinding sun in the cloudless sky and remembers when he'd been called up in the reserves and spent months in the fucking bright desert sun and thought about moving Kathy and two young daughters he'd had at the time out to Seattle because he was so fucking tired of sunshine and he suddenly can't remember why he didn't when he got home. He tries not to feel the empty eyes of Evans on him and pretends he can't hear Whelan's breathing choking to a stop and he blocks out the pain, the physical and mental, and feels the tears running down his face and he thinks they're going to find his body with tear tracks staining his face and that's even more pathetic than being the miserable old man with a hole in his sock.

He should pray, he thinks, there's nothing else left to do, and it's what he's always done in these sorts of situations - not that he's ever been in a situation quite like this - and he knows the words to all the prayers and he knows which one he always defaulted to in danger and he knows the mantra of saints names he'd implore when he was too desperate to even think of a specific prayer. But there's no point in it this time. There's no comfort in it. He hasn't been to church in over a year and he doesn't even feel bad about that.

It feels like a dagger through his heart when he thinks about what had been a cornerstone of his existence since he was child, when he thinks about the truth, about why he betrayed Olivia, and he knows the religion that demanded he sacrifice her and inflict so much pain on someone completely innocent to atone for his sins cannot possibly offer him any comfort here. He thinks of Father Hogan and how the man must have known what he was saying was wrong and yet still said it and he wonders how the priest obviously felt no guilt and Elliot's life for the past twelve years has been nothing but shame and pain and remorse and he feels nothing about the image of Jesus tattooed on his arm and he's merely curious now that he's actually dying to find out what happens and whether or not he was right to believe all those years and he suspects he'd be going to hell except he's already there and has lived most of his life in hell and all of the last twelve years there and he's just fucking glad that it's finally fucking over because he's tired of suffering and he's tired of making the people around him suffer and he's sorry that Whelan isn't breathing anymore and he's sorry that he doesn't even know Evans' first name and he's sorry that Bell is going to face a fucking inquisition over this and he's sorry that Jet is going to feel bad and he's so fucking sorry that he managed to hurt Olivia once again and that she won't even have the comfort of them being on speaking terms when she hears that he's dead and he's really fucking sorry he didn't have the balls to tell her why he left the way he did, even if it wouldn't have helped. Fuck, he's so fucking sorry for hurting her that his whole body hurts even more than it did a moment ago. Yeah, he'd rather be dead than feel the guilt of destroying their relationship and denying their connection.

He closes his eyes and, for the briefest moment, he's back in his kitchen and Olivia is in his arms and he's kissing her and his fingers are tangling in her hair and he's asking her if that's paint in her hair and she's sighing and it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard and then he's back on the ground with his head on the sidewalk and his hand in the flower bed and the literal dead weight of his coworker crushing him and it's disconcerting to realize the choking rasp that's stuttering to a stop is actually coming from his throat and not Whelan's because Whelan hasn't been breathing for some time now, but luckily the thought doesn't have time to sink in and scare him because it's just dark and quiet and peaceful and for that moment, nothing fucking hurts because he got to have Olivia in his life and he got to love her even if she didn't love him and that's a fucking lot to be thankful for since he didn't deserve a damn bit of her time.