Dawn.

By kattanon

Fandom: The Shield

Pairing: Dutch/m

Description : A fan fiction story for The Shield. Dark with mention of non-con.

Disclaimer: - I don’t own any of the characters of The Shield (although I wish I could borrow Dutch every now and then), they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Dawn

By kattanon

As he looked through the high windows Dutch could see the inky blackness of the night sky beginning to give way to dawn and the promise of a new day, the day he would die.

There was a certain irony in his situation which even now at the eleventh hour he couldn’t fail to recognise. Where once, not so long ago, he had hunted serial killers here he was about to become the latest victim of one. Dutch was mildly surprised to find that the overwhelming emotion he was experiencing when faced by his imminent demise was one of relief. Soon there would be no more pain, no more fear and no more humiliation, just peace. No more touching, no more punches, no more slaps, no more pinches, no more fingers scrabbling over his flesh, poking, pushing, invading his body, violating his soul and leaving a burning trail in their wake. No more touch that made him dirty and used.

He could feel a sob rising, seeking to escape his throat; he clamped down on it using the only control over his body he had left. His body didn’t belong to him any more, that had been the lesson beaten into him over the past six days and nights of hell. His body belonged to his tormenter now, was his to use as he saw fit, his to use for his amusement and to satisfy his lusts.

There was that sob again better to think about something else, anything else. His death, yes that was comforting at last able to see the end in sight. The end he’d prayed for when he was alone in the dark, when his body and soul had been one huge hurt. For the first few days he’d prayed for rescue, for Claudette, Aceveda, Mackey, the FBI, SWAT anyone to come and get him, to take him home. They would be searching for him he knew, he was one of them and the police looked after their own. Besides he was sure of Claudette, sure that she wouldn’t rest until he was found. He was her partner, they respected each other, liked each other, she wouldn’t give up on him. Claudette was a good detective, instinctive with excellent reasoning skills; she would find him soon.

Then on the forth night his prayer changed, not for rescue now just an end. He had lain on the big bed with his hands tied to the iron bedstead just like now. He had moved trying to ease the pain in his lower back and had felt the cold air moving against the blood and semen which seemed to coat his buttocks and thighs. Just as now his emotions had betrayed him and he had wanted to cry, but his throat had been so sore and his hands were agony. He couldn’t help but remember the torture his hands had undergone. Indeed he’d latched onto the memory, one remembered torture pushing another out of his mind. That morning he had summoned his remaining strength of mind and had fought back. It was stupid; a useless defiance which had earned him nothing but pain, but at the time he hadn’t thought just acted. He had scratched with a free hand, drawing satisfaction when blood had flowed and his tormentor had cried out in pain himself. The satisfaction hadn’t lasted long when he had been punched in the side of the head, stunned and then bound securely back into place. Dutch had known he would be punished, but had thought it a worthwhile price to pay, he felt that he had snatched back some of his self-respect. What an idiot he was, now that he looked back on it he could see that his small act of defiance had gained him nothing but pain. Whatever self-respect he thought he’d gained was soon lost when he had screamed himself hoarse and begged for mercy while his finger nails had been pulled out one by one in retribution. As if that hadn’t been enough his cries had aroused the torturer so much that as soon as that agony was finished he had been dragged up bent over the table and raped yet again. All the while his cries and screams were accompanied but that evil bastard’s laughter. When he had finally emptied his filth deep into Dutch’s body he’d lifted his head by his hair and leaned over to slowly lick a path up the side of Dutch’s face, clearly enjoying the taste of his sweat and tears, his fear, and had whispered in his ear "Smile for the camera".

How could he want to be rescued after that, after he had learned that everything that had gone on in that room, every torture, every perversion had been video-taped and a copy sent to Claudette. Who had watched them he wondered, Claudette, Aceveda, special agents with the FBI who were bound to be involved in the case, maybe Jim Ryde who had helped him profile Sally’s killer. Hell for all he knew Mackey and the entire strike team had got to watch, and why stop there suddenly an insane vision of the whole precinct sitting down with sodas and popcorn to watch the next installment in the destruction of Detective Dutch Wagenbach popped into his mind. Then death had become preferable to rescue, how could he ever face anyone again, never to be sure who had seen those tapes, who knew everything and was looking at him with pity and disgust

He suddenly pulled himself back to the here and now, he didn’t like remembering things, not anymore. Dutch turned towards the windows again and saw the sky becoming streaked with pinks and oranges, dawn was here. Soon there would be only one more tape to be made and watched. For the first time in seven days Dutch felt a small smile on his face.

END