In The Line of Duty
Disclaimer: I just borrow their wonderful creations. I
don't own them. The ideas however are all mine. No Pairing. Discussion of
mature themes.
It was no accident that my gun misfired. Not
the first time or the last. No accident that the bullet slammed into my chest,
ripping through vital tissue. Arteries, veins, lungs. My death came quickly and
inevitably after that.
I stopped cleaning my gun ages ago. I was
looking for a way to die. Then one day, working a case, the way fell into my
lap. The victim had been beaten to death even though there was a gun on the
primary scene. Why? Well, the gun failed due to poor maintenance. I still
didn’t exactly decide to stop cleaning my gun. I just found reasons to put it
off. The first time it misfired I realized what had happened. But I still
didn't clean the gun.
My past, I always kept well hidden. It was
back in New York and there I wanted it to stay. Every part of it, most
especially the grief. I didn't want it in Florida and I most certainly didn't
want my co-workers to know. My parents were busy. Dad worked hard. And mom was
always busy with someone else's child. Never noticing her own child's
difficulties. Alone, no close friends, the bare minimum of not so close
friends. No sibling until I was thirteen and then well what little time they
had had for me all but disappeared with a new baby in the house. I spent my
time with my books, quiet, no problems at school. Then I met Robin, my best
friend in the world. Two science geeks who met in a library and hit it off. We
became completely inseparable. Until that damn senior trip. One last trail we
said. But the trail was icy and the light was fading. And in an instant all our
plans, the summer in Europe, college together, were gone. Robin was paralyzed
from the neck down.
I didn't go to Europe; I spent the summer
visiting Robin in various hospitals and rehabilitation centers. I left for
school alone. I studied like a demon, desperate to find a way to help Robin.
For two years I worked and studied. The only things that ever distracted me
were phone calls and e-mails form Robin. And the occasional trip home so I
could visit. Then barely into my third year I got a phone call. Robin was gone.
Complications during necessary surgery.
My life stopped. I tried to carry on for a
while. But I just didn't care any more. Nothing mattered without Robin in my
life. I tried to look forward, tried to continue. But I no longer could see
where I was going. What I was trying to accomplish. All my hard work had been
for Robin. Now there was no need for it. No e-mails to look forward to when I
turned on my computer. No reason to pick up the phone. So one night I packed up
my dorm room, and I left. At first I just drove, letting the road take me where
it would. For two years I wandered. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of but
I managed to keep moving all that time. Keep running from the pain.
Then finally that road ended. It brought me
to Miami and I stumbled upon the life of a CSI. I liked what I saw for the
first time in two years, something mattered to me. So I went back to school,
quietly finished up my degree, and before I knew it I found myself working for
ex-Bomb Squad Lieutenant with a drive very much like my own. We got along well.
Our team formed and worked together solving these complex puzzles of evidence.
We helped people, found answers for them, helped to make sure that those who
had wronged them were punished.
But slowly manic energy the cases had ignited
in me died out. The brilliant colors that I had seen in those puzzles faded
away until all that was left was monochromatic grays. I could still fit the
pieces and solve the puzzle, but the excitement; the draw of it was gone. I
watched one too many guilty men get off on some detail. Saw too many lives
destroyed. I worked mechanically at my tasks, as each one mattered less to me
then the last. The pain in my heart began to grow again. Then along came that
case, and I stopped cleaning my gun. It misfired on the range one day and I
knew why. But I just quietly holstered my weapon and went home.
Not long after that came that damn dispo day
attack. That should have been it. But that idiot didn't go for the headshot. Oh
no, he shot me square in the Kevlar. I lived. Calliegh gave me hell, and cleaned
my gun before she returned it to me. Then H gave me that gun cleaning kit. And
it all made me think, these people cared for me. So I tired to live for a
while. But it didn't last, it wasn't enough, and soon each day was like walking
dream. Like I was already dead but my body was still moving. Each day I swore
the sound of the pieces of my broken soul rattling around inside me got a
little louder.
So when I saw the behavior of the employees
at the jewelers I drew my gun, assumed my stance, and wondered if today would
be the day it failed me. I moved so I was closer to the shooter. My gun failing
would put both of us at risk; at least I could make myself the more available
target. Then I pulled the trigger… and nothing happened. I looked down at the gun
in amazement.
It *was* today. Then white-hot pain seared
into my chest and the force of the bullet threw me back; the tile floor seemed
to rush up to meet my falling body.
Time seemed to slow as I lay there on the
floor and I didn't seem to be able to keep track of what was going on around
me. I took a moment to hope that H would be okay. He had to find that little
boy. I was so cold. I couldn't feel anything but that awful cold. Next thing I
knew H was kneeling beside me. I saw the desperation in his eyes and I knew for
sure, it was finally over. I would finally be free. He was talking I could see
his mouth moving but I couldn't hear over the roar in my ears. I wished I could
find the strength to tell him not to worry; this was what I wanted. I tried one
last time and managed a few words. But they weren't enough. I couldn't even
draw a breath. So I closed my eyes and stopped trying.
Then suddenly I felt fine. I opened my eyes
and found myself standing a few feet from where I'd been. Where I still was, I
realized. I was looking down at my own body laying on the floor surrounded by
blood. At H hunched over me, his eyes clenched shut as though he could shut out
what he'd just seen. As looked over the scene before me it occurred to me I
should feel something. Pain, or loss, or maybe guilt. But none of those
emotions came.
Then a movement in the doorway caught my
attention. There, outlined by the brilliant light suddenly shining in through
the glass doors was a figure. Whoever it was, I just knew they were waiting for
me. So with one last look back I moved to the doorway; the figure's face
becoming clear. It was Robin, waiting for me still. I paused a few feet away
staring in awe, until Robin held out a hand to me. I reached out and took it,
we turned together walking out the door and into that brilliant light.
In the end this path was perfect. I was
finally free. No more pain. My friends and family will be spared the pain of a
self-inflicted death. They will remember a hero, killed in the line of duty. I
know I'm no hero. I'm far closer to a coward taking this way out. But now no
one will ever know the truth.
END
Final Note: You may or may not have noticed I've left Robin as being fairly ambiguous. I couldn't find a reference either way... so I figured if who ever wrote the character profiles for the show can be ambiguous so can I. The interpretation of Robin male or female and the extent of the relationship is up to you.