Title: - Day.

Author: -Katt.

E-mail: - kattanon@hotmail.com

Rating: - R

Series: - The sequel to Night and Dawn.

Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know.

Archive: - I’d be honoured, just let me know.

Warnings: - This story will contain references to violence, non-con and child abuse. Although this is intended as comfort after all the hurt of "Night" and "Dawn" it won’t be an easy read either.

Disclaimer: - I don’t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.




Day
by Katt


Claudette sat in the hospital waiting room for what felt like the hundredth time in the past two months. She even had her favourite chair. The one she was sitting in now where she could look out of the window and gaze down on the hospital’s entrance, watching the world coming and going through it’s doors. Sighing she glanced back at the door and wondered what was taking them so long. They were already half an hour late, what could be holding them up. As far as she knew all his bags had been packed the night before and it was just a case of some last minute paperwork, prescriptions to be filled and appointments to be made and then that was it, Dutch was being allowed home.

She settled back into the chair and closed her eyes for a moment, as she did she ran her mind quickly back over the preceding two months of hell. In the ambulance on the way to the hospital after Dutch had been rescued from that psychopath Simon Collins Claudette had known that there would be many hard battles to be fought while Dutch recovered physically from his ordeal. However, she hadn’t realised just how many and how hard they would be. Within seconds of arriving at the hospital Dutch had gone into cardiac arrest. The image of his body twitching on the ER table as the doctors tried to shock his heart into restarting, and she was ushered firmly out of the room by a nurse, was still one that she couldn’t rid herself of. There were nights that she woke up in a cold sweat hearing the doctors voices calling out numbers and shouting "clear" before the loud sound of the resuscitation equipment shooting electricity into Dutch's body. Claudette shuddered, a chill going through her body despite the warm Californian sunshine that was flooding into the room from the window she sat by. It had taken the doctors in the ER two and half-hours to stabilize Dutch enough for him to be taken up to the surgical floor so the damage inflicted by that monster Collins could be repaired.

After the surgery was finally over the surgeon had dropped the next bombshell. He had come to tell them how the surgery had gone, that Dutch was stable and being transferred to the intensive care unit. As he had been about to leave he turned back to them and almost as an after thought had said, "There was one further thing that perhaps you should know. When I was repairing the damage caused by the sexual assaults it became clear that this isn’t the first time that Detective Wagenbach has been raped."

Claudette could still remember the disbelief she had felt at those words. She hadn’t thought it possible, Dutch was her partner, she would have known, she would have sensed it. She prided herself on her insight, hadn’t she spotted the tell-tale signs when they’d been interviewing Edwardo, the illegal immigrant who’d been raped by his friend on a truck as they’d both been being smuggled over the boarder? It had been Captain Aceveda who had asked the surgeon if he was sure. He’d nodded and told them,

"Oh yes quite sure, there was evidence of old scarring both externally and internally I’m afraid. It isn’t recent, from Detective Wagenbach’s age I’d say it probably occurred when he was in his teens. More than likely he suffered a least several years of serious sexual abuse. I’m sorry to have to tell you this but if the police department is going to be arranging for counseling I thought it best to tell you."

Claudette shuddered when she remembered the stunned silence that had followed the surgeon’s words. However, Dutch’s past had nearly never been an issue as his condition had suddenly worsened a couple of days later. The doctors had called it secondary drowning, and Claudette had never heard of it before but it had been very real and very serious. Dutch had begun to drown in his own pulmonary fluids as his damaged lungs had begun to fill and his breathing had become seriously compromised. Claudette had realised that the doctors hadn’t expected Dutch to live. However, after what he’d survived she hadn’t been about to let him go without a fight, and she knew that Dutch wasn’t going to just give up and slip away either. She’d seen the last tape that Simon had made, the tape that he had intended to send her to show her Dutch’s murder. At first the FBI hadn’t wanted her to see it, they said it would just upset her but she had insisted and she was glad she had. At first Dutch had been quiet, almost like a soulless automaton, doing everything that Simon had told him to, meekly obeying. Claudette had despaired then wondering how Dutch would find the strength to fight his way back to health if he no longer wanted to live. Then she’d seen a change come over him. When Simon had been leading him over to the tub of water he’d begun to hesitate, to try to pull away. Then he’d said, "I…I don’t want to drown…I don’t want to die now."

He’d begun to struggle, but he’d been too weakened by his ordeal to succeed, and Claudette found watching Dutch’s "death" had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to see. However, he had tried to fight, and she’d known then that try as he might Simon hadn’t succeeded in completely crushing Dutch’s spirit. She’d hung onto the hope that the same will to live that had caused him to fight Simon would pull him through the dark times ahead. It had seemed as if she would be proved correct when, despite the doctor’s pessimistic predictions, Dutch had fought back and begun to improve.

However, even as his lungs had begun to clear and his breathing had improved his temperature had refused to come down instead it had steadily climbed over the next couple of days as his body was ravaged by an infection. Yet again though he’d rallied and fought back, stubbornly refusing to give up and slip away.

Claudette thought about the days she’d spent sitting by him willing him to carry on living, trying to impart her own strength into him to give him something to fight back with. Smiling sadly Claudette remembered that she’d nearly made herself ill, not eating properly or getting enough rest as she’d kept her vigil. Captain Aceveda had been good to her, letting her have as much time as she needed to be there for her partner. Of course she didn’t think she had any vacation time left now for about the next four years or so but she didn’t mind. However, the strain had taken it’s toll and it had been Vic Mackey who had finally convinced her that if she wanted to help Dutch then she should start taking proper care of herself. He’d argued that Dutch would need her later when he was getting better and returning to consciousness. She had known he was right and had accepted his help, letting him stay with Dutch when he could so she could get some rest. She’d been a little surprised at his offer to help, but when he’d shrugged and simply said that she should remember he’d watched those tapes too, she’d understood.

Vic had been proven correct when he’d told her one evening, after watching her try to sooth Dutch as he suffered from one of the many fever induced nightmares he’d had, that the hardest battles of all were still to come. Gradually the battle for Dutch’s life had been won, and he’d steadily improved and grown stronger. As he got better the doctors began to step down his medication. He began to have moments of consciousness that became longer and more lucid over the period of several days. That had been when they’d all realised just how much damage had been done to the Dutch they’d known.

Claudette jumped, shaken from her dark thoughts by the sound of the waiting room door opening. Gathering herself she stood and forcing a smile onto her face she said, "Hi Dutch I’ve come to take you home."


Day – Chapter 2.

Dutch stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed at some point over Claudette’s left shoulder, and then he dropped his eyes down to study the floor. Claudette sighed quietly; Dutch never looked anyone in the eye anymore. His gaze always skittering away nervously to study the wall or, more usually the floor.

"Thanks." He said quietly.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be saying anything more Claudette moved forward a couple of steps to help him with his bags, but stopped herself when she saw Dutch tense at her approach. She silently cursed herself for being so stupid. This was what she found the hardest thing about the new Dutch that had emerged as the doctors had stepped down his medication. It was as if he had built an invisible barrier around himself, an impenetrable wall that was there to keep the rest of the world out. While he’d been unconscious she’d spent hours sitting beside him holding his hand engaged in a one sided conversation. Talking to him about everything and anything, trying to let him know she was there. She’d rubbed his arm and smoothed back his hair, mumbling nonsense to him, when he’d been gripped by fierce nightmares. Then suddenly all the physical contact had been taken away, and she had to admit she’d missed it. Although at the time Claudette hadn’t realised it, but the feel of his warm, very much still alive, hand in hers had been as much of a comfort to her as she hoped it had been to Dutch.

She looked at him, studying him for a moment. He was thinner than he used to be. He had always been slim but the seven days spent held prisoner with no food had meant he’d lost weight he really hadn’t had there to lose. Although the hospital had done a good job getting him to eat, giving him high calorie drinks in an effort to build him back up, there was still a gauntness about his face that hadn’t been there before, and she hoped it was only a temporary condition. Most of all though Dutch just looked uncomfortable. He always looked that way now, he always looked as if he was uncomfortable in his own skin.

It was time to leave and Claudette pulled her mind back to the here and now. This was after all the day she had spent weeks praying would happen; this was the day she’d been waiting for. Finally Dutch had been judged physically well enough to leave the hospital. Although his discharge was conditional upon his continuing with his daily counseling sessions with the police department psychiatrist. However, despite this being what she’d wanted she found herself wishing she could just lead Dutch back to his room, unpack his bags and put him back into his bed. She was worried that while he may be physically able to take care of himself, mentally, well that was a whole different story. It might not be so bad if he’d taken her up on her offer, which she’d made a few days before, to stay with her for at least a couple of weeks. However, he wouldn’t hear of it and had just told her in his quiet voice, while studying his hands that, "You’ve done enough Claudette and…and I want to go home."

So now that was exactly what he was going to do. Trying to sound enthusiastic she said, "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

Do you want some help carrying anything?" She asked.

"No."

Sighing, realizing that Dutch was obviously feeling particularly mono-syllabic today, Claudette indicated the door and said,

"Come on then, let’s get you home son."

Dutch stepped back out of the waiting room door, and quietly waited for Claudette to join him in the corridor. Then he stayed a couple of steps behind her a she led him out to the parking garage where her car was. Claudette watched him put his bags in the trunk, and get into the passenger seat before she climbed in next to him. Deciding to give it one last try, hoping that the reality of leaving the safe confines of the hospital would change his mind, Claudette turned to him and asked, "Are you sure you won’t change your mind Dutch, come home with me?"

"No it’s ok…I want to go home." Dutch told her while staring out of the window.

"Alright son." She sighed.

Claudette could feel her tension increasing the further away from the hospital, and the closer to Dutch’s house, that they got. She glanced across at Dutch sitting in the seat next to her. He kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the view passing by his window, although how much he was actually seeing of it she wasn’t sure. He was hunched as far away from her as he could get, pressed up against car door, partially turned away from her. Sensing some movement, in the otherwise still man, she glanced down and saw him repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists. His body language doing nothing to reassure her that this was a wise move.

Finding the silence a little unnerving Claudette tried desperately to think of something to say some meaningless small talk to fill up the heavy silence. However, knowing that Dutch would probably either just ignore her efforts, or continue in his one word answers, she merely pursed her lips and concentrated on the road. Of course she mused if she pushed the point there was always the possibility that she’d be treated to a rare show of Dutch’s temper. While, on the whole, he had become quiet and withdrawn after what had happened to him, he sometimes flared up. It had only happened on a few occasions over the past month or so, but wow when he lost it he really lost it. It usually seemed to occur when he felt someone was pushing him too much. Claudette thought that Dutch was using his temper as a kind of defense mechanism. When he felt himself being pushed into a corner he lashed out. He’d shout, swear and had been known to throw whatever was handy at the time, books, magazines, his lunch. Strangely it was these bursts of temper which gave Claudette the most hope that the old Dutch was still buried inside of him. He’d never been a bad-tempered person, if anything Claudette had always thought Dutch had tended to bottle things up too much, but she’d seen him lose his temper a couple of times and the episodes in the hospital, the intensity in him when they’d occurred, had reminded her of those times. It was a facet of his old personality that was still there and, Claudette reasoned, if that was still there then maybe there was more just needing a little more time to emerge.

So after a silent twenty minutes they were pulling into his driveway. She’d stopped the car and climbed out before she realised that Dutch hadn’t moved. Bending down and looking back into the car she saw him sitting unmoving looking at his house, the expression on his face difficult to read.

"Are you alright?" She asked him.

He turned and glanced in her direction, before looking back at the house and telling her.

"Yes…yes…it’s just…well I never thought I’d be here again."

Claudette felt her heart clench at those words. Jesus, how she wished she could have five minutes alone with Collins. Make him pay for the pain and suffering that he’d inflicted on Dutch. Make him pay for the emotional damage he’d caused to her partner and friend. Focusing once more on Dutch she gently asked him,

"Are you sure about this Dutch? My offer still stands you know, you can stay with me for a while. Just a few days if you want, just until you get used to being out of the hospital."

Dutch took a deep breath and reached over undoing his seatbelt before replying,

"No…no it’s ok Claudette. I want to do this…I need to do this."

"Alright…well you’ve got your keys, do you want to go up and unlock the door while I get your bags?"

Dutch nodded and Claudette watched him get out of the car and walk slowly up to the front door. He slipped the key into the lock and, seeming to hesitate before turning the key, opened the door. She watched him pause and then finally enter the house. Taking her time she collected his bags from the trunk, and followed him into the house. She’d wanted to give him the space of a few minutes by himself, and now she found him standing up in the middle of his living room with silent tears rolling down his face.

"I…I…I never thought I’d get home…I begged him to let me come home."

Claudette bit her lip to suppress her own tears at Dutch’s reaction, at the pain in his voice.

"You were strong Dutch…you survived…and…and we never gave up looking for you…I never gave up."

For a rare second he actually looked up and looked Claudette in the eye. It just lasted a moment before he quickly looked down at the floor again, but it had been the first time he’d done it since he’d regained consciousness, and Claudette felt a burst of hope pass through her.

"Come on shall we take your bags upstairs?" She asked him.

He nodded and allowed her to lead the way up the stairs. However, when she turned towards his bedroom his quiet voice said, "No."

Stopping she turned back to find him still standing at the top of the stairs. She was confused for a moment, and glanced from Dutch to the open bedroom door. Everything was ready in there for him, she’d cleaned it up, made sure all the mess had been tided up and the bloody handprint had been washed off the wall. Dutch said in a hesitant voice, "Not yet…I can’t…I’ll sleep in the guestroom."

Smiling reassuringly at him Claudette said, "Of course, if that’s what you want."

Retracing her steps she took his bags into the spare bedroom and placed them on the bed. Turning to see Dutch hovering in the doorway she asked him, "Do you want me to help you unpack?"

He hesitated, and then flushed a little with embarrassment when he said, "No…I…ah…I want to be on my own. Thanks for…for everything Claudette, but I’d like you to go now."

Surprised Claudette frowned, "I don’t know Dutch…I thought I’d help you settle in."

Shaking his head, a note of determination in his voice Dutch told her, "No…thanks I can manage. Goodbye Claudette."

Hesitating for a moment, but realizing that maybe Dutch needed this, needed to begin to re-take control of his life, she nodded and moved past him. Pausing she said, "Ok, I’ll let myself out, but Dutch if you need anything just call alright?"

"Ok."

"I’ll be by tomorrow at nine to pick you up for your appointment with Dr. Alexander."

"Ok."

Noticing the tension in his body and the return to the single word answers, Claudette realised it was time for her to leave. So turning and going down the stairs she merely paused at the bottom and called up a goodbye before she left.

Once back in her car she sat for a minute to look back at the house. Worry for Dutch nagging away at her mind. God, she hoped he’d be all right there on his own. She had to resist the urge to go back and grab him, and drag him home with her; at least then she’d know he was safe. Sighing she started her car and backed it out of Dutch’s drive. She had to stop trying to coddle him, he had to stand on his own two feet, and find his place back in the world again. He had to start picking up the pieces of his life if he was ever to return to some form of normality, return to work even. She missed her partner after all. He’d be fine she reassured herself as she drove away. All the while she ignored that little voice in her head that asked, "Yeah, and what if he isn’t fine?"

Back in the quiet, still house Dutch stood against the wall at the top of the stairs unmoving after Claudette had left. Finally he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and buried his face in his knees, and gently began to rock backwards and forwards.




Chapter 3.

Sitting in the waiting room outside Dr. Alexander’s office Dutch gazed down at his hands, watching as his right hand nervously fiddled with the hem of his left sleeve, picking at a non-existent loose thread. With an effort he willed his hand to stop, and to make sure he didn’t start the nervous fiddling again, he clasped his hands together, and letting out a long, low breath, leaned back in the chair, feigning relaxation. He stared at the picture of Van Gogh’s "Sunflowers" on the wall opposite, and tried to pretend he couldn’t feel the eyes of the receptionist on him. It was actually a huge effort to keep still. He wanted to shuffle his feet, his right knee wanted to bounce up and down, his hands were sweating, and he had to resist the urge to wipe them on his thighs. Most of all he’d of liked to get up and pace, try to walk off a little of the nervous energy he could feel building up within himself. However, he forced himself to keep still, he didn’t want to look jittery. He didn’t want Dr. Alexander thinking he was un-hinged, even if that was exactly how he felt, as if he could fly apart at any moment.

It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d met Dr. Alexander after all, he’d been seeing him daily at the hospital for nearly two weeks now. This was the first time Dutch had been to his office though. He was relieved the Claudette hadn’t volunteered to wait with him. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate everything she’d done for him. He knew how worried she’d been when he’d been missing, how hard she’d worked to find him. He also knew the long hours she’d spent sitting beside him while he’d been unconscious, and the time she’d spent sitting quietly next to him when he’d regained consciousness, and had just tried to blot out the world, withdrawing into himself. He was grateful to her for all those things, but he just couldn’t stand her concern. He could see the worry that was nagging away at her behind her eyes every time she looked at him, and he hated the thought that he’d put it there.

He started slightly, and chided himself for showing a reaction, when the receptionist said, "Dr. Alexander’s ready for you now Detective Wagenbach."

"Thanks." He replied.

He stood up and walked over to the heavy wooden door by the receptionist’s desk, which had a shiny brass name plate with the doctors name on it, followed by an impressive collection of letters, each no doubt representing some professional qualification or another. After only a slight hesitation, and successfully resisting the urge to turn on his heel and run as fast as he could, Dutch raised his hand and knocked on the door. Without waiting he opened it and stepped into the office beyond.

After closing the door behind him he stopped, standing just inside the office, feeling suddenly unsure about what to do next.

"Ah, Dutch come in and sit down." Dr. Alexander said, indicating the chair in front of his desk.

Dutch smiled tightly at him, and moved to the chair he’d indicated and sat down. Glancing down at the doctor’s desk he saw a green folder with his name written on it, "Detective Holland Wagenbach", except "Holland" had been crossed out and "Dutch" written above it. He remembered the first time Dr. Alexander had come to see him at the hospital. He’d called him Holland, and had had to duck when he’d had a book flung at his head, and been told "Never, never call me that!" God knows Dutch had never been overly fond of his Christian name, who would be, but after those seven day’s hearing that loathsome voice calling him "Holland", he never wanted to hear it again.

"And how are you this morning Dutch?"

"Fine thanks." Dutch replied, still staring at the top of the desk, and fighting the urge to fidget.

"Good…So you went home yesterday. How was that?"

"Fine…um good."

"No problems returning home…to the scene of your abduction?" The doctor asked.

Dutch looked down at his feet and chewed his lower lip as he considered his answer. He could imagine the man on the other side of the desk, sitting with his pen poised over his notebook, waiting to write down his words. Waiting to judge what he said, waiting to judge him. He could lie, tell him everything had been great. He’d had a great night, kicked back with a few beers, watched some TV, relaxed, and went to bed for a restful nights sleep. However, considering he was a terrible liar, he couldn’t drink alcohol with the medication he was taking, and he knew the doctor wouldn’t buy it for a second, he decided it probably wasn’t a good idea. So maybe he should tell the truth. He’d spent an hour huddled at the top of his stairs rocking himself after Claudette had left. If he tried to go near his old bedroom he felt physically sick. He spent most of the time pretending to watch TV, while not really taking in anything that had been on the screen. He’d jumped at every noise, every creaking floorboard, and he kept seeing shadows moving out of the corner of his eye. Then when he’d gone to bed in the guestroom, he’d had to leave every light in the house switched on. Also he’d had to check every door and window lock, and the newly installed alarm system at least ten times. Then he’d lain in bed, and had pulled the covers up over his head, and sobbed, because he was such a fucking head-case. Deciding that if he ever wanted to be declared mentally fit enough to return to work, that that version of events might not do his case a lot of good, he shrugged and mumbled out, "Well you know it was fine ah…it wasn’t easy. I…um I’m sleeping in the guestroom for now. It was good to be out of the hospital though…to have some space…some privacy."

"Claudette didn’t stay with you? I know she was going to pick you up and drive you home."

"Um...no I asked her to go. I just wanted to be on my own for a while…you know."

"How did you find that?"

"Find what?" Dutch asked.

"Being on your own…How did it make you feel?"

"Um…it was good…it was fine."

"That’s a lot of "fines" Dutch." The doctor said his voice sounding slightly amused.

Dutch quickly glanced up at him, before looking away, and squirming uncomfortably in his seat. Jesus, he hated being watched all the time. He could feel himself flush slightly at the doctor’s words and replied, "Yeah well you know it’s true…I’m feeling much better…much calmer. It’s good to be home and ah…I think I’m getting my life back together again…don’t you?"

"You’re doing really well Dutch, that’s true." The doctor assured him.

"Good…so I can go back to work soon…just…you know…um desk duty or something, but if I’m doing well." Dutch tried, and knew he’d failed, to keep a note of desperation from entering his voice as he spoke.

God, he just wanted to get his life back. He wanted to be normal again. He suddenly realised he’d begun to fiddle with his sleeve again, and guiltily dropped his hand into his lap, mentally cursing himself for his lapse.

A slight pause, and then Dr. Alexander’s calm voice,

"I think it’s a little early for that yet Dutch, But don’t worry we’ll get there. Now how are you finding your medication?"

Dutch had to resist the urge to say "fine", and replied,

"They’re good…um they’re working well."

"You must remember to take them Dutch, it’s important."

"Of course…I know that." Dutch told him, repressing the little flare of annoyance that rose up inside himself at being told what to do.

"You’re taking an MAOI, Phenelzine, for your depression and anxiety, that’s right isn’t it?"

Dutch hated admitting to taking these things; it made him feel like a nutcase, "Yeah that’s right." He mumbled.

He could hear the doctor rifling through his notes.

"Well you must take them regularly, and your sleeping pills too. You’re looking a little tired this morning, didn’t you sleep well?"

Knowing he’d been caught out, and deciding it was too late to lie, Dutch admitted, "I didn’t take them last night, but I will from now on, I promise…I just wanted to see how it would be without them, that’s all."

"I understand that you want to deal with this, put it behind you, and move on Dutch, but there are steps that have to be followed. It’ll take time, but I’m confident we’ll get there, ok?"

Nodding Dutch sighed, "I know…I know, it’s just…" Here his voice petered out as he found it difficult to articulate his feelings.

"It’s alright Dutch, I understand, it’s hard." Dr. Alexander told him in his best professionally reassuring voice.

Dutch bit the inside of his cheek, feeling his teeth dig into the soft flesh there, he needed to focus on the pain to stop himself from jumping up from his chair, and screaming at the smug man on the other side of the desk, "You understand…how can you understand? Have you ever been held prisoner by a sadistic fucking madman, had your entire life ripped apart, destroyed? Been treated like something less than human, used for his pleasure, made to feel totally fucking worthless!"

Instead he regained control, and just nodded at the doctor’s platitudes.

"Well I think that’ll be all for today Dutch, I just wanted to make sure the transition from the hospital to home was going well. I’ll see you tomorrow, at the same time, and we’ll get down to working through some issues, ok?"

Relived that he could leave Dutch quickly stood up, and glanced up at the doctor saying, "Um…yeah that’s fine. Thanks…I’ll see you tomorrow."

Then, with a level of self-control he was rather proud of, he managed to walk to the door instead of running.

He’d just stepped out of the office, closing the door behind himself, when a familiar voice drawled, "Hi Dutchboy, how’s it going?"

Surprised Dutch looked up to see Vic Mackey sitting in one of the waiting room chairs with a copy of "Good Housekeeping" open on his lap.

Chapter 4.

Dutch faltered for a moment, for a second not sure what to say, what to do. Then he just blanked Vic out, and walked right past him out of the waiting room, and down the corridor towards the elevator. Christ, was he never gonna have any peace, any privacy. All he wanted was to try and get his life back together again. How could he do that if he was always being watched? If everyone he knew always regarded him as damaged, as in need of protection, how could he even think about going back to work, being treated as a professional, an equal, and not some unstable screw up.

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Vic had followed him, he could sense the presence of the other man behind him. There were two other men, deep in conversation, standing by the elevator, waiting for it to arrive. Dutch stood back, away from them and still ignoring Vic gazed at the closed elevator doors, willing it to arrive. As if in answer to his prayer a soft chime signaled it’s arrival, and the doors opened. There was already one man in the elevator when it arrived, and the two men who’d been waiting on this floor for it stepped in ahead of Dutch. Dutch stepped forward, he meant to get in, he wanted to get in, but as he saw the three strangers all waiting expectantly for him to step inside he froze. The thought of being confined in that small metal box with those three men, all standing close to him, maybe even touching him, terrified him. The doors to the lift began to shut, and one of the men stuck out his hand to stop it asking, "Are you getting in or not?"

Dutch couldn’t speak, his mouth suddenly too dry to form words, he just dumbly shook his head, and stumbled back from the doors.

The man "tsked" impatiently, and drew back his hand letting the doors slide shut, and to Dutch’s relief those three curious stares were gone.

Dutch could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his stomach churning uncomfortably, he needed some fresh air. He jumped slightly when a voice from behind him spoke quietly, "The stairs are over there, why don’t we walk down?"

Dutch mentally cursed himself for his jittery reaction. In his sudden fear he’d forgotten that Vic Mackey was standing a couple of feet away from him, watching him. Still right now he just needed to get out of this building, and not trusting his voice to speak he merely nodded, and quickly made his way over to the stairwell.

Five minutes later he was standing outside the office building, leaning back against a wall dragging in some deep breaths, and trying to clear his mind and centre himself. As Dr. Alexander had told him, at the hospital, he should do if he ever felt anxious or overwhelmed by a situation.

"How are you feeling?" Vic asked.

Clearing his throat, and opening his eyes, Dutch answered, "Fine."

"Yeah sure." Vic replied with a snort.

Ignoring Vic’s unbelieving tone, Dutch stated, "Claudette sent you."

It was a statement not a question because Dutch already knew the answer, he knew his partner well enough to know she’d be fretting about him, and that she wasn’t above calling in a few favours to get someone to check up on him.

"Now why would you think that Dutchboy?" The amusement was plain in Vic’s voice.

"I’m just guessing, but hanging out in psychiatrist’s offices, reading "Good Housekeeping" doesn’t seem like a hobby you’d have."

Dutch was quite proud that his voice sounded steady, and that this was probably the longest sentence he’d said in a week.

"Hey, don’t knock it." Vic replied with a laugh. "Now I can give a dinner party for six friends for only sixty dollars, and I’ve discovered the perfect way to give my living room that designer chic make-over look."

Dutch laughed. He couldn’t help himself, and he felt kinda grateful to Vic for doing that. He didn’t laugh much anymore, and for a second that feeling of normality he was finding so elusive in his life was there in his grasp, before it disappeared like an apparition.

His voice suddenly serious Vic asked again,

"How are you feeling?"

Looking towards the road, watching the traffic pass, but aware of the man standing next to him, studying his face, Dutch replied, "Dr. Alexander says I have "issues", that I need to deal with."

Vic snorted in derision, the contempt in his voice evident. Whether it was for Dr. Alexander in particular or just shrinks in general, Dutch wasn’t sure.

"Yeah well what a genius…haven’t we all."

Silence fell between them, and Dutch stole half a glance in Vic’s direction. He still couldn’t figure Vic out. He seemed to care, and Dutch couldn’t quite figure out why. He’d asked him in the hospital. It had been about a week or so after he’d finally become more aware of his surroundings. After his medication didn’t keep his brain quite so numb, and he was actually trying to drag himself back into the real world, instead of squeezing his eyes shut, and trying to hide from it. Dutch remembered he’d woken up, and looking out of the window had seen it was dark. There was a soft glow coming from behind him, and carefully turning around, he’d seen Vic sitting in a chair by his bed reading a case file by the light from his bedside lamp. He’d known that Claudette was at work, after having so much time off to stay with him she’d finally had to go back, and start working normally again. However, he hadn’t expected anyone else to be there, and especially not Vic Mackey. Vic had been in several times to say hello, and to speak to Claudette, but on the whole Dutch hadn’t paid much attention. Now however, he’d been curious, and had asked him, "Why?"

He remembered Vic had looked up from his file startled to see him awake, and had frowned and said, "What?"

"Why…Why are you here…Why do you care?" Dutch had asked him genuinely puzzled.

He’d worked with Vic sure, and although they weren’t exactly friends, he’d gained a grudging resect for the man after the Sally case. However, he couldn’t quite see Vic as the "Florence Nightingale" type. Maybe if it was one of his own men, Shane Vendrell for instance, who’d been hurt, then yeah perhaps he’d spend time at the hospital with them, but why would Vic Mackey be sitting at his bedside. Vic’s answer had been short, and to the point, "I watched those tapes too Dutch."

Dutch could still remember the look of shock on Vic’s face as his words had caused him to throw up all over himself and his bed.

So for a while Dutch had thought it was just pity that made Vic seem to care. He’d seen the tapes and felt sorry for him, and so did his bit like you might for a charity case. However, Dutch had been surprised by even that reaction. He’d of thought Vic’s reaction would more likely to have been one of disgust and derision, but if he felt anything like that he hid it well, because as hard as Dutch looked for that in the other man he never found a trace of it.

Suddenly the sound of Vic’s voice next to him brought him back to the here and now, and the busy street outside the psychiatrist’s building.

"Do you want to take a walk?"

Shrugging Dutch resisted the urge to refuse, the urge to get home as quickly as he could, and shut himself away from the world, behind his locked doors and windows and alarm system.

"Sure." He replied instead, and fell into step next to Vic.

Chapter 5.

Vic studied Dutch out of the corner of his eye. He sat staring straight ahead, ignoring Vic. His entire body was tight with tension, and Vic had the impression that it left Dutch brittle. One touch and he might shatter. They must look ridiculous, he thought to himself, like a pair of bookends, one sat at either end of the park bench. However, Vic was well aware that Dutch didn’t take too kindly to any encroachment into his personal space.

Of course Dutch had never been a very tactile person. Vic had figured that out after a couple of days of first meeting him. Highly-strung and up tight had been his assessment. After the Sally case, and watching how Dutch had obsessed over it, Vic had added "taking things too personally" and "likely to burn-out", to the list. Of course the reason for all these personality traits had become glaringly obvious with the surgeon’s words the first day at the hospital, two months ago.

Poor guy, to have suffered all that he had at the hands of that monster Collins was bad enough, but to have also survived being abused as a kid. Vic had to suppress a sigh. Dutch had refused point-blank to talk about what had happened to him in his childhood. He wouldn’t talk about it, and he wouldn’t tell them who’d hurt him. However, considering he’d had no contact with his parents it wasn’t too difficult to figure it out. The advice from the department shrink had been for everyone to back off the subject. It was something that he’d tackle with Dutch during their therapy sessions, he’d said. Asshole, Vic thought. If it had been Dutch’s father that had hurt him as a kid then someone needed to track the bastard down and mete out some justice. A job Vic wouldn’t mind doing himself.

Right now though he had some news for Dutch that he wasn’t sure how he’d take. Clearing his throat Vic turned towards the other man and said, "There’s something you should know Dutch."

Dutch half turned towards him, but his gaze never left the small pond they were sitting next to. As if the half dozen ducks that swam in circles there were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen. His voice sounding cautious he asked Vic, "Oh, and what’s that?"

"Aceveda called me into his office just before I left to…"

Dutch interrupted, "Come spy on me."

Vic winced at the flatness to his tone, "To make sure you were ok." Vic firmly told him. "Because your partner was concerned and…and I was concerned too."

Vic watched as surprise at his words registered briefly on Dutch’s face, and once more silently cursed Collins, and everyone else in Dutch’s life, who’d made him feel so bad about himself that he was surprised that anyone would be bothered to be worried about him. Wanting to get this over with he continued, "Like I said, Aceveda called me in to see him, he wanted me to tell you…Well to tell you that the decision’s been made about Collins’ mental fitness to stand trial."

Vic paused, watching Dutch carefully. As soon as he’d mentioned Collins’ name he’d seen Dutch fold into himself slightly, his eyes dropping to the floor, and his teeth worrying his lower lip in nervousness. Finally Dutch asked, in a voice so quiet Vic only just heard him, "And?"

"They’ve ruled him unfit to stand trial. He’s been committed to the Las Encinas Psychiatric Hospital."

Dutch was quiet for a moment before he asked,

"For how long?"

"Aceveda wasn’t sure. He didn’t have all the details, but he’s gonna find out and let you know. He just wanted you to know there isn’t gonna be a trial so...."

Once again Dutch interrupted him, "So I don’t have to stand up in court and describe…everything."

"No, no you don’t."

Vic watched Dutch carefully. The younger man’s face had shut down, the lack of expression not giving him any clue as to how he was taking the news.

Then Dutch said, "And he gets to sit in a comfortable hospital while the doctors try to "help" him".

Vic winced at the amount of bitterness and derision, in Dutch’s voice. But what could he say, he couldn’t blame Dutch for feeling pissed off. Collins wasn’t insane he was evil. There’d been too much careful planning and clever deception used to perpetrate his crimes, for them to have been the acts of a mad man, but the city employed shrinks felt differently, and it was their call. He could see how to Dutch it would seem that Collins was getting away with it, getting the easy option, and hell he was. No doubt as much as Dutch didn’t want to give evidence in a courtroom, he at least wanted to see some form of justice done.

Feeling bad for him Vic said, "I’m sorry Dutch."

"Yeah," Dutch replied, "everyone’s sorry."

His voice sounded so desolate that Vic studied him carefully. His misery was plain to see. He sat staring at the ground, his arms wrapped around himself. He looked so alone.

Vic wanted to reach out, to touch him. Even if it was just a hand on his arm, something to show Dutch that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to go through this alone, but he didn’t.

Vic didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but he was afraid. Afraid what Dutch’s reaction would be, afraid of getting pulled any deeper into Dutch’s life, and afraid that maybe he wanted to be.

He clenched his hands into fists, and had to make a conscious effort to keep them by his sides. His life had enough complications in it at the moment; he certainly didn’t need to be adding any more. Then he felt a rush of guilt for thinking of Dutch as a "complication".

He couldn’t offer Dutch any comfort with his touch, so Vic desperately tried to come up with some words that might express how he felt. However, every phrase of sympathy that came into his mind seemed trite and patronizing. It was Dutch, who spoke first, standing up he said, "I’m going home."

Getting up too Vic took a step towards him, and then halted, "I’ll give you a lift."

Dutch hesitated, "I could walk."

"It’s what…four miles back to your place? Come on it’s on my way anyway."

"I’d rather walk." Dutch said quietly.

Vic chewed his lip for a moment, before saying,

"I’ll walk with you then."

Dutch huffed out an annoyed breath, "Why…afraid I’ll get lost. Jesus, I’m not a kid, or an invalid, or whatever it is you all see me as. I don’t need a…a…baby-sitter."

Caught off-guard by Dutch’s sudden temper, Vic stepped back, and raised his hands in a placating gesture. He ignored the curious stare of a couple of passers-by.

"Alright…alright no need to bite my head off. I just thought…I don’t know…maybe you’d like to talk or something."

"Well I don’t." Dutch snapped. "I don’t know why people can’t seem to understand that. I don’t want to "share" or "unburden myself", or whatever other pseudo-psychological bullshit people want to come out with. This isn’t a God-damned episode of Ricki Lake, this is my fucking life…and I don’t want to talk about what happened in that room, or when I was a kid…. Christ!"

Vic knew that Dutch was frustrated, and confused, and angry. He knew that he was just hitting out at the nearest target he had, which was him, but he still felt pissed, and before he could stop himself he retaliated, "Yeah well pardon people for caring. Jesus Dutch maybe you want to stop wallowing in so much self-pity, and let people in, let people help you. People care…is that so hard for you to believe? You don’t have to do it all on your own…you’ve got to stop pushing us all away."

All the colour had drained from Dutch’s face as Vic had been talking, and when he finished Dutch sat down heavily on the bench again, looking like he’d been sucker punched. Vic took a deep breath, his anger suddenly dissipated, and mentally he kicked himself. Dropping back down onto the bench too, he apologized, "Shit, I’m sorry Dutch. I didn’t mean it I…"

He got no further before Dutch interrupted him, "No…no you’re right." Dutch said, as he reached up and scrubbed a hand through his hair before continuing, "I just…I don’t know, everything is such a fucking mess. I know people…you, Claudette, even Dr Alexander…I know you want to help, but I don’t even know how to help myself. Shit…half the time I don’t feel anything, and the other half I feel like I’m going fucking crazy."

Dutch stopped, his voice breaking, and he pressed his lips tightly together. Vic looked away, to give him at least the illusion of privacy, and pretended not to notice as Dutch wiped the palm of his hand quickly over his eyes.

After a couple of minutes of silence Dutch finally said,

"Is that ride still on offer?"

Vic turned to him and smiled, "Sure." Then deciding to push his luck he added. "We could pick up something to eat on the way, have it at your place…Claudette said you’ve got a thing for Chinese?"

Dutch stood up, and laughed, shaking his head, "Don’t you have some work to do…doors to kick in…gang members to roust?"

"Nah," Vic said as they began to walk towards where he’d left his car. "I’ve exercised my leadership skills by delegating the grunt-work to the team for the day. Besides if I get you to eat it’ll earn me some points from Claudette, and it’s always a good idea to keep on that woman’s right side."

Dutch laughed again, and Vic smiled, and was a little surprised at how happy hearing Dutch laugh made him feel.

Chapter 6.

He lay perfectly still and perfectly quietly in his bed. He lay on his back, his arms resting by his side. If anybody looked they’d assume he was asleep, but in fact he was wide-awake. He wasn’t supposed to be he was supposed to take his medication, and pass the night in restful, dreamless slumber. However, he liked to think at night. It was the only time he got any peace. During the day there was always someone wanting to "help him", wanting to get him to talk, get him to share his thoughts and feelings, wanting to pry. At night it was just him and his memories, his thoughts, his dreams and his fantasies.

He was staring at the square patch of light that shone onto the highly polished gray floor. The light shone in through the small square of re-enforced glass in the door, and came from the illuminated corridor outside his room. Straining his ears he could hear the soft squeak of the nurses shoes as she strolled down the corridor on her hourly rounds. Squeak, squeak, squeak, pause, over and over again, as she walked down the corridor pausing to look in through all those little windows, in all those plain white doors. As he listened she came closer and closer, until finally he heard her pause at the door before his. Three squeaking footfalls, and then she was there peering in at him. He knew she couldn’t see his face clearly, but he let his eyes slide shut anyway. He didn’t move, and made sure he was breathing deeply and steadily. The routine five seconds of scrutiny, and then the rubber soles squeaking on the tiled floor as she moved off to spend five seconds looking at the occupant of the neighbouring room.

Opening his eyes, and flicking his gaze up at the tiled ceiling, Simon allowed himself a small smile. He hadn’t imagined that this was going to be so easy. It had seemed as if everyone had been falling over themselves, much to the disgust of the FBI, to believe he was insane. Their narrow little minds couldn’t understand that he’d done the things he’d done because he enjoyed them.

Within a few hours of being arrested a psychiatrist working for his court appointed attorney had assessed him. Simon had immediately begun planning his actions to ensure that he achieved his goal, which was, of course, to get back what belonged to him. He’d known that the best chance he’d have to achieve that was to keep out of the prison system. So a few hints about "voices in his head", and he’d had the shrinks eating out of his hand. When he’d told them how contrite he was concerning his treatment of Holland one of them had even told him that Holland had been released from hospital, and allowed to go home. At least he wouldn’t have to look too hard to find him again when the time was right.

If things went according to plan that wouldn’t be too much longer. The hospital staff had already begun to relax around him, considering him to be cooperative and well medicated. He’d even gotten onto the good side of the housekeeping staff by offering to change his own bedding every Monday morning, to "save them some time", he told them smilingly. Of course, not only did it allow them an extra ten minutes on their mid-morning break, but it meant that the tiny hole in his mattress went undiscovered. It was there that he’d been carefully secreting the medication which the nurse watched him take several times a day, but which he kept carefully hidden under his tongue. It amazed Simon how understaffed the place was, to such an extent that only one harassed nurse completed the drugs round.

Not that he minded of course. The less staff there were the easier it was going to be when the time came for him to escape.

That wasn’t going to be the hard part. The hard part was going to be getting his hands on Holland again. He’d have to move quickly he knew that much. Once the news that he’d escaped got out Simon had no doubt that Holland’s friends, his colleagues in the police, would make sure he was so well hidden that Simon would never find him.

Simon knew that he wouldn’t have much time after he had escaped, but all he needed was a couple of hours alone with Holland. Then they could pick up where they’d left off. However, Simon didn’t intend to kill Holland straight away. He wanted some time to reacquaint himself with all the delights that slim, lithe body had to offer him.

Simon felt his penis hardening as he remembered the feel of Holland’s body under him, squirming and struggling to escape, while he took what he wanted. Reaching underneath his blankets Simon indulged himself with a couple of long, slow strokes before he stopped himself, deciding to save himself for Holland.

Just then he heard the tell-tale squeak, squeak, squeak, pause beginning again as the nurse began to walk her round once more. Deciding he had enough pleasant images in his mind to supply his sub-conscious with some very vivid and enjoyable dreams, Simon turned over, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep with a contented smile on his face.

Chapter 7.

He couldn’t move. As hard as he tried he was held fast. He felt groggy, confused, his eyes were open, but he was surrounded by a deep, impenetrable darkness. As his mind began to slowly clear recognition began to echo through him, and his confusion turned to terror.

He was tied down, the rough hemp of the ropes cutting into the thin flesh of his wrists and ankles. Bent over at the waist his chest and face rested against something cold and hard…a table. Goose flesh covered his body as he realised he was naked.

Memories flooded his mind. One horrific torture after another played itself out in his head as his panic mounted. He could hear his breathing becoming faster, harsher, as his struggles to free himself became steadily more desperate.

One part of his mind registered the pain as the ropes cut into skin that had only been healed for a month or so, but the fear was so overwhelming that he ignored it, and fought frantically to escape.

He couldn’t let this happen again. He couldn’t go through it again, the pain, the humiliation, the violation of his body and soul. He would rather die. He’d barely survived the last time, this time he knew he’d go mad.

Then something, some primal sixth sense, told him that he wasn’t alone any more. He froze, holding his breath, every sense reaching out into the darkness trying to pinpoint the danger. Then he heard it, a whisper from the surrounding night. A voice that sent tremors through his body, a word he hated, "Holland."

The whimper that escaped his mouth rapidly mutated into a sob as he pulled against his restraints. A disembodied chuckle sounded from behind him, and he felt tears running down his face.

The touch of the icy cold hand as it was possessively laid against his backside shocked him and he drew in a deep breath and held it. His body suddenly still, except for the involuntary trembling that shook him from head to toe.

Then he felt the naked body of the other man pressed against him. The ice-cold chest pressed against his back. The flesh that touched him as cold as a corpse, stealing any warmth from his body. A sheet of brittle ice encasing his heart and squeezing it.

Breath, frigid like a Nebraska wind in the mid-winter, puffed against his ear as that hated voice, as Simon’s voice, told him, "You didn’t think I’d let you get away did you? I told you, you’re mine, you belong to me. I own you Holland, and now I’m gonna show you how much I love you."

Icy fingers probing, invading his body, sending burning pain and escalating terror to course through him. Then the feel of Simon’s erection pressed against him, the final catalyst that pushed him over the edge. He opened his mouth and began to scream…

*

Scrambling to escape Dutch fell off his bed with a thud. His heart was pounding in his chest so hard, and so fast, it felt as if it would explode. His breathing was gasping and ragged. His face wet from a mixture of cold sweat and burning tears. It wasn’t until his back hit the wall that he realised that in his blind panic he’d backed himself into a corner of the bedroom. God, it had been a dream, a nightmare, so vivid he looked down at his wrists expecting to see torn, bloody flesh injured in his desperation to free himself. Instead all he saw was the slightly too pink look of newly healed skin.

Partially using the wall to pull himself up Dutch made his way to the bathroom on legs that were still a little unsteady. His body was sweaty, and it felt dirty and tainted from Simon’s imagined, or should that be remembered, touch, Dutch thought with a shudder. Switching on the shower Dutch quickly stripped off his tee shirt and boxers, dropping them into the laundry basket, and stepped under water that was as hot as he could stand.

Once he felt clean again he stopped off into his bedroom to get himself some clean clothes, but didn’t consider going back to bed. The thought of sleep banished for another night.

Instead he made his way downstairs, quickly fixed himself a cup of tea, and went into the living room. Sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, Dutch sipped his tea, and in an attempt not to think about the nightmare he’d just endured, he cast his mind back to the previous day’s events.

Although it hadn’t started out to be very promising; the visit to Dr Alexander’s office, freaking out in front of Vic because he was too afraid to get into an elevator. Then acting like an idiot and throwing a tantrum in the park until Vic had been forced to point out a few home-truths to him. Despite these early indicators of another crappy day things had actually gotten a lot better after that, and he’d had what had probably been the best day for a long time.

At first he’d resented Vic’s presence at the psychiatrist’s office. It felt as though no one trusted him, as if he had to be checked up on all the time like a recalcitrant child. An opinion he’d made sure he’d expressed to Vic in no uncertain terms. He’d hoped, expected, that Vic would lose his temper and leave him alone. What he hadn’t expected, but what had happened, was for Vic to get mad at him and to let him have it. Usually when he pushed people too far they’d back down and back off. However, Vic had refused to do that, and Dutch had been surprised at the sense of relief Vic’s reaction had produced in him. Vic had treated him like a real person, like the old Dutch.

After that the day had just gotten better. They’d picked up Chinese, and had brought it back here to his house to eat. They’d talked about work, cases Vic and the Strike Team were involved in, other people’s cases, workplace gossip, just ordinary, everyday stuff he used to take for granted, but now felt starved of. Vic had even asked his opinion a couple of times concerning cases he was working, and although Dutch was positive that he was only doing it to be kind, he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

Probably the best thing for Dutch about the whole day though had been the fact that he’d been able to relax and feel comfortable around another man.

Since he’d come around in the hospital he’d reacted in what he knew was a completely irrational way towards other men. Even men that intellectually he knew were perfectly safe, doctors, FBI agents, Dr Alexander, even Captain Aceveda. He knew they weren’t going to hurt him, but instinctively their very presence in the same room as him seemed to set off every internal alarm he had. He’d try not to show it, but he would feel his heart rate increase, he’d get butterflies in his stomach, his palms would sweat and he’d feel nauseous. He tried to hide these symptoms of his fear, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was. However, if they came too close to him he wasn’t able to prevent himself shrinking back away from them, and he knew that they noticed that. He’d seen the pity and embarrassment on their faces, and he hated it.

Yesterday had been different though. Vic had kept his distance from him physically, but not in an obvious way, and both Vic’s sensitivity and his tact had surprised Dutch. He’d also kept up an almost non-stop banter of amusing and light-hearted subjects, which had meant that for one afternoon, at least, Dutch hadn’t once thought about Collins or the events of those seven days.

It had been great while it had lasted, but eventually, of course, Vic had had to leave. He’d needed to get back to The Barn and check in with his team.

Dutch hadn’t wanted to let his disappointment show, but he knew from Vic’s expression that he had. He knew he was sulking like a petulant child, but what the hell, that was nothing new after all. He knew his attitude had made Vic feel guilty, and that had just made him feel worse. When Vic had promised that he’d stop by again as soon as he could Dutch had just shrugged as if he didn’t care, and he’d felt himself closing down. God, Vic must of wondered just what kind of a loony he was. Laughing and chatting one minute, and then sullen and withdrawn the next.

The medication he was taking was supposed to be helping him manage his mood swings, but they didn’t seem to be doing a great job. His emotions seemed to be all over the place most of the time, and he hated the loss of control he felt. Not only did it make him feel as though he was losing his mind, it also exhausted him. He’d lurch from one extreme of emotion to another, highs and lows, and in between he’d be overtaken by a kind of mental and physical lethargy that left him feeling empty.

After Vic had left he’d found himself sinking down into this numb state, and yet this time instead of fighting it, resenting it, he’d welcomed it, because it had prevented him from thinking about the news that Vic had brought him earlier. The news that Simon wasn’t safely locked up in a maximum security prison, as he’d been promised by the Feds, but locked away in a hospital, not only made Dutch mad as hell, it also frightened him more than he cared to acknowledge. So he’d let himself become numb so he could avoid facing up to his feelings, but his recent nightmare had proven how unsuccessful a strategy that had been.

Dutch sighed and took a sip of his tea, screwing up his face in disgust when he realised it was cold. He also tried very hard to suppress a shudder as some of the feelings that had seemed so real in his dream flared up briefly to remind him of the chaos that he was sure lurked just under the surface of his subconscious.

Looking up at the clock Dutch realised he was due at Dr Alexander’s office in another four hours, plenty of time for him to get ready. Plenty of time for him to have another long, hot shower, because suddenly Dutch felt dirty again.

END PART 7