WiTB fic: The Dead Land re-write (to make up for nowhere near enough Simone in the actual ep)
Will post this in bits as I write...
He tightens the chains as twilight descends.
"Michael? That's your name, isn't it? I'm Alex, Alex Fielding. But you know that. I have a son, his name is Ben, he's-"
"Shut up! Just stop talking!" He smacks her again, cleanly across her cheek, before shoving her to the ground.
*
Tony feels slow. Like his brain is a quagmire, like every though is a struggle through the incessant pull of clogging minutae, like every realization has come a day too late. He throws down a coffee, then another in quick succession, hoping the caffeine will shock his sturgid brain into working faster.
"OK. Facts. We have CCTV footage of a well-built male in black leaving the garage by the back exit. We have a late-model Toyota, stolen from Bradfield Airport long-term parking, ditched behind the garage. We have a list of Dr Bryants' clients, although fat lot of good that is. We have medical reports for Michael's stay in the pysch hospital, a list of everyone who came in contact with him. So let's start with that. Dr Hill?"
Tony wrenches himself from the pit of growing uncertainty yawning in his stomach and turns to Kevin.
*
Soupy darkness descends in the barn, and the air is chilling, her breath frosting before her face. I'll freeze to death out here before he can kill me, Alex thinks, hugging her knees to her chest as best she can despite the chains roping her wrists and ankles together. She examines them again, for the hundredth time, searching for a broken link, a rusted chink, some weakness she can exploit, and finds none. It isn't new, but the chain is strong and sturdy. It bites into her skin, already rubbed raw at the bones of her ankles and wrists. She takes inventory of her injuries thus far; the gash on her temple is still bleeding sluggishly, the skin across her cheek is broken and probably bruised, the ache in her ribs is dull until she inhales, and the gash in her right leg, running jagged from thigh to mid-calf, has finally stopped bleeding. She is okay. Adrenaline surges in her blood, and pain looms in the distance as she tugs desperately on her bindings once more.
*
"Michael is under pressure. He won't be thinking with his usual finesse, he's angry and probably injured and feeling resentful. Anger is dangerous. He's going to be more brutal than he has been."
"More brutal?" Kevin mutters, shaking his head. Tony feels anger flare like a flame."Yes, Kevin, more brutal. His plans were thwarted. He wanted to kill me, but he didn't succeed. He's going to want vengeance. To right that wrong. He's going to want to hurt, to damage. Damage..."
Tony's trailing thought is interrupted by the ringing of a cellphone. Just as Kevin begins to berate the team Tony registers the sensation, the vibration in his pocket.
"Tony Hill."
The voice sends a thrill of worry through him.
"Tony!"
"Ben, what's up? How are you? How did you get-"
But his words die in his mouth at the sound of Ben choking back tears, his little-boy voice struggling."
"Tony, it's mum. She's gone."
"What do you mean, gone? Ben?"
"She went out, and she hasn't come back. Granddad says I mustn't worry, but... something's wrong, Tony. She isn't answering her phone, and she never does that. She's been gone for hours."
Fear is escalating in Ben's voice, and Tony can feel it clawing at the back of his neck.
"Where did she say she was going, Ben?"
"She went to get milk, and the newspaper, and the shops are only down the road."
"And what time was that, exactly?"
"It was ten, this morning. A bit before. I remember, MI:High was on."
"And where is our Granddad now, Ben?"
"He's downstairs. He doesn't now I've called you. I'm scared, Tony. Mum doesn't do this."
"You're right, Ben, she doesn't. Listen, can you go downstairs and put me on to your Granddad? I'd better talk to him."
"Ok, I'm going now. Thanks, Tony. No-one else would believe me."
"I believe you, Ben. You're the expert when it comes to your mum. Now, what's your Grandad's name?"
"It's John. Here you go."
*
She doesn't know he's watching, through a crack in the old oak door. He watches as she tugs against the chains binding her, as she scans the walls for a way out, as she runs her hands over her body, searching the bruises and cuts and bloodied skin.
She is pretty, beautiful, even, especially now, now that she is trapped and dirty and bleeding. Her white shirt is ripped, buttons flung far, and he can see the lace of her bra, bright white against the gold of her skin. Her thick golden brown hair is tangled in a knot, her dark eyes scared. She is very pretty. He likes her, likes the way she bites back at him, the way she fights and resists and won't give in. She is strong. He remembers her, the way she burst in to save Tony bloody Hill's life, fearless and arrogant. He doesn't care about anything further. She is lovely and bloodied and at his mercy. He watches a while longer.
*
Panic spreads like contagion in the station. Kevin shouts orders left and right, the ACC has arrived and is holed up in Alex's office, and Tony is shuffling mug shots and rap sheets and medical records over the conference table, trying to deny the tremor in his hands. He has told Ben to call him if he hears anything, or if he gets afraid, or just needs to talk, and the phone in his pocket seems unnaturally heavy. Tony doesn't know where to start. He was spent ten whole minutes dialling Alex's mobile and listening to her voicemail message, her soft voice terribly familiar and utterly unreachable. He is afraid. He forces himself not to think of what may be happening to her, of what may have already happened. He berates himself, over and over, for taking her for granted, for assuming she will always be there, her lovely face tilted toward his, a glitter of mischief in her exotic eyes. He thinks of the funeral yesterday, of how he wished he had the courage to touch her, to pull her into an embrace, right there in front of her family and Kevin and the priest. But he was afraid then, too, and he failed to act. He hopes now that she could see behind the false lilt in his voice, behind the smile forced upon his face, behind the space between them. He doesn't know if she knows, in fact he is painfully sure she doesn't know that he thinks of her in stolen moments, that the time she quoted Nietzsche to him is imprinted in his memory, that every time he knocks on her door his pulse races. She doesn't know that he tries so very hard with Ben because it makes her smile, that he curses himself every time he misses a call from her, that each and every time he has sounded preoccupied or too busy when she has called he realised, a split second too late, that she was reaching out, and that he missed another chance. He doesn't know how long she will last, how many chances she will give him, if she may even have already given up.
*
Ben sits on the sixth stair from the bottom, seventh from the top. His knees shake, even though he presses them together hard to hide it. He wants to cry, to wail and scream and pound his fists on the floor, but he knows it wouldn't help, so he stays quiet, watching the adults downstairs. From the sixth stair he can see the two police officers in their starched uniforms, standing straight as toy soldiers, and the other officer who he has guessed is a detective because she is dressed in everyday clothes, like his mum wears. She looks stricter than his mum, though; her pale hair is pulled back from her face like a headmistress's and her eyebrows are frowning so hard they are almost joined. They are talking in muted voices, the detective's eyes fixed on his granddad. Ben feels sick. Nothing is happening. They're just standing around, while his mum is lost, missing. Ben tucks his chin in his hands, and wonders if praying will help.
*
There's a shovel on the floor, just beyond the span of the chains. It is broken and dirt-encrusted, but the handle looks heavy enough. Alex listens to the quiet night outside, but there is no sound of movement, just the whistle of wind, rustling leaves, the bay of a dog in the distance. There must be a house nearby, a farmhouse, where Michael is holed up, out here in the desolate countyside. She doesn't know where she is; he threw a sack over her head as he threw her in the back of his van. She shivers, memory crawling along her skin. At least she can be sure he isn't going after Tony, not when he has her here, at his mercy. She listens carefully again, and moves toward the shovel.
*
It takes Tony a solid minute to realise. A photocopy of a title deed to a farm north of Bradfield is tucked amongst the medical records, and Tony shuffles past it twice before his eyes register it. A twenty-acre property, remote and wooded, still in Michael's father's name.
"Kevin? Kevin!"
TBC
***
Finally! Just saw the 'Joy' promo with the full-on Huddy snog!!! Holy ef! SERIOUSLY hot. Seriously
He tightens the chains as twilight descends.
"Michael? That's your name, isn't it? I'm Alex, Alex Fielding. But you know that. I have a son, his name is Ben, he's-"
"Shut up! Just stop talking!" He smacks her again, cleanly across her cheek, before shoving her to the ground.
*
Tony feels slow. Like his brain is a quagmire, like every though is a struggle through the incessant pull of clogging minutae, like every realization has come a day too late. He throws down a coffee, then another in quick succession, hoping the caffeine will shock his sturgid brain into working faster.
"OK. Facts. We have CCTV footage of a well-built male in black leaving the garage by the back exit. We have a late-model Toyota, stolen from Bradfield Airport long-term parking, ditched behind the garage. We have a list of Dr Bryants' clients, although fat lot of good that is. We have medical reports for Michael's stay in the pysch hospital, a list of everyone who came in contact with him. So let's start with that. Dr Hill?"
Tony wrenches himself from the pit of growing uncertainty yawning in his stomach and turns to Kevin.
*
Soupy darkness descends in the barn, and the air is chilling, her breath frosting before her face. I'll freeze to death out here before he can kill me, Alex thinks, hugging her knees to her chest as best she can despite the chains roping her wrists and ankles together. She examines them again, for the hundredth time, searching for a broken link, a rusted chink, some weakness she can exploit, and finds none. It isn't new, but the chain is strong and sturdy. It bites into her skin, already rubbed raw at the bones of her ankles and wrists. She takes inventory of her injuries thus far; the gash on her temple is still bleeding sluggishly, the skin across her cheek is broken and probably bruised, the ache in her ribs is dull until she inhales, and the gash in her right leg, running jagged from thigh to mid-calf, has finally stopped bleeding. She is okay. Adrenaline surges in her blood, and pain looms in the distance as she tugs desperately on her bindings once more.
*
"Michael is under pressure. He won't be thinking with his usual finesse, he's angry and probably injured and feeling resentful. Anger is dangerous. He's going to be more brutal than he has been."
"More brutal?" Kevin mutters, shaking his head. Tony feels anger flare like a flame."Yes, Kevin, more brutal. His plans were thwarted. He wanted to kill me, but he didn't succeed. He's going to want vengeance. To right that wrong. He's going to want to hurt, to damage. Damage..."
Tony's trailing thought is interrupted by the ringing of a cellphone. Just as Kevin begins to berate the team Tony registers the sensation, the vibration in his pocket.
"Tony Hill."
The voice sends a thrill of worry through him.
"Tony!"
"Ben, what's up? How are you? How did you get-"
But his words die in his mouth at the sound of Ben choking back tears, his little-boy voice struggling."
"Tony, it's mum. She's gone."
"What do you mean, gone? Ben?"
"She went out, and she hasn't come back. Granddad says I mustn't worry, but... something's wrong, Tony. She isn't answering her phone, and she never does that. She's been gone for hours."
Fear is escalating in Ben's voice, and Tony can feel it clawing at the back of his neck.
"Where did she say she was going, Ben?"
"She went to get milk, and the newspaper, and the shops are only down the road."
"And what time was that, exactly?"
"It was ten, this morning. A bit before. I remember, MI:High was on."
"And where is our Granddad now, Ben?"
"He's downstairs. He doesn't now I've called you. I'm scared, Tony. Mum doesn't do this."
"You're right, Ben, she doesn't. Listen, can you go downstairs and put me on to your Granddad? I'd better talk to him."
"Ok, I'm going now. Thanks, Tony. No-one else would believe me."
"I believe you, Ben. You're the expert when it comes to your mum. Now, what's your Grandad's name?"
"It's John. Here you go."
*
She doesn't know he's watching, through a crack in the old oak door. He watches as she tugs against the chains binding her, as she scans the walls for a way out, as she runs her hands over her body, searching the bruises and cuts and bloodied skin.
She is pretty, beautiful, even, especially now, now that she is trapped and dirty and bleeding. Her white shirt is ripped, buttons flung far, and he can see the lace of her bra, bright white against the gold of her skin. Her thick golden brown hair is tangled in a knot, her dark eyes scared. She is very pretty. He likes her, likes the way she bites back at him, the way she fights and resists and won't give in. She is strong. He remembers her, the way she burst in to save Tony bloody Hill's life, fearless and arrogant. He doesn't care about anything further. She is lovely and bloodied and at his mercy. He watches a while longer.
*
Panic spreads like contagion in the station. Kevin shouts orders left and right, the ACC has arrived and is holed up in Alex's office, and Tony is shuffling mug shots and rap sheets and medical records over the conference table, trying to deny the tremor in his hands. He has told Ben to call him if he hears anything, or if he gets afraid, or just needs to talk, and the phone in his pocket seems unnaturally heavy. Tony doesn't know where to start. He was spent ten whole minutes dialling Alex's mobile and listening to her voicemail message, her soft voice terribly familiar and utterly unreachable. He is afraid. He forces himself not to think of what may be happening to her, of what may have already happened. He berates himself, over and over, for taking her for granted, for assuming she will always be there, her lovely face tilted toward his, a glitter of mischief in her exotic eyes. He thinks of the funeral yesterday, of how he wished he had the courage to touch her, to pull her into an embrace, right there in front of her family and Kevin and the priest. But he was afraid then, too, and he failed to act. He hopes now that she could see behind the false lilt in his voice, behind the smile forced upon his face, behind the space between them. He doesn't know if she knows, in fact he is painfully sure she doesn't know that he thinks of her in stolen moments, that the time she quoted Nietzsche to him is imprinted in his memory, that every time he knocks on her door his pulse races. She doesn't know that he tries so very hard with Ben because it makes her smile, that he curses himself every time he misses a call from her, that each and every time he has sounded preoccupied or too busy when she has called he realised, a split second too late, that she was reaching out, and that he missed another chance. He doesn't know how long she will last, how many chances she will give him, if she may even have already given up.
*
Ben sits on the sixth stair from the bottom, seventh from the top. His knees shake, even though he presses them together hard to hide it. He wants to cry, to wail and scream and pound his fists on the floor, but he knows it wouldn't help, so he stays quiet, watching the adults downstairs. From the sixth stair he can see the two police officers in their starched uniforms, standing straight as toy soldiers, and the other officer who he has guessed is a detective because she is dressed in everyday clothes, like his mum wears. She looks stricter than his mum, though; her pale hair is pulled back from her face like a headmistress's and her eyebrows are frowning so hard they are almost joined. They are talking in muted voices, the detective's eyes fixed on his granddad. Ben feels sick. Nothing is happening. They're just standing around, while his mum is lost, missing. Ben tucks his chin in his hands, and wonders if praying will help.
*
There's a shovel on the floor, just beyond the span of the chains. It is broken and dirt-encrusted, but the handle looks heavy enough. Alex listens to the quiet night outside, but there is no sound of movement, just the whistle of wind, rustling leaves, the bay of a dog in the distance. There must be a house nearby, a farmhouse, where Michael is holed up, out here in the desolate countyside. She doesn't know where she is; he threw a sack over her head as he threw her in the back of his van. She shivers, memory crawling along her skin. At least she can be sure he isn't going after Tony, not when he has her here, at his mercy. She listens carefully again, and moves toward the shovel.
*
It takes Tony a solid minute to realise. A photocopy of a title deed to a farm north of Bradfield is tucked amongst the medical records, and Tony shuffles past it twice before his eyes register it. A twenty-acre property, remote and wooded, still in Michael's father's name.
"Kevin? Kevin!"
TBC
***
Finally! Just saw the 'Joy' promo with the full-on Huddy snog!!! Holy ef! SERIOUSLY hot. Seriously