FIC: Clean, 1/1 (Don, mention of Crystal Hoyle, Buck Winters and Ian, ?, PG-13)
Title: "Clean" (1/1)
Word Count: 788.
Characters: Don, mention of Crystal Hoyle, Buck Winters and Ian, ?.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: 3x01 - Spree and 3x02 - Two Daughters.
Summary: He knew that, inevitably, regrets would eat and chew his brain, but he wasn’t expecting the adrenaline of his mistake to remain for so long inside his body, marking his soul.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Numb3rs.
Beta: The fantastic
twins_m0mand the great lillyg.
A/N: This is a little experiment of mine. It started as a drabble for numb3rs100but the plot bunny was fed with coffee and this is the result.
Clean
That shot was clean. Only one was needed, and it was accurate.
He just held the rifle and pulled the trigger. He was determined to put an end to the situation.
Maybe too much.
But it doesn’t matter now since Crystal Hoyle is dead, does it?
Tonight, lying in his bed, Don realizes how messed up his mind could be. He sits up, hearing something tick, and he instinctively finds the clock. It drags his whole attention; he can’t make his eyes abandon the admiration - or the tragedy - of such an evil device.
He can’t turn back time, and he knows it. Yet that doesn’t mean it’s an easy fact to bear.
It’s not like what Ian did. He did the dirty job, while Don took care of the most questionable part - allowing it.
He knew that, inevitably, regrets would eat and chew his brain, but he wasn’t expecting the adrenaline of his mistake to remain for so long inside his body, marking his soul.
Every regret means it’s too late.
The lamp’s light makes it all look banal. He can’t cope if everything’s so normal, like today is like any other day. This is not the usual situation, but there’s the risk of it becoming one.
Barefoot, Don decides to leave the bed where all his negativity and his pain concentrate. He’s stood there watching the clock for too long, and that’s not pursuing a real change.
The kitchen will do for a few minutes. He does need some light, but only the one coming from the fridge. Door open, beer in hand, cold air getting to his nerves, he lets himself slide onto the floor and enjoys the taste of his future state of drunkenness.
One sip and he feels his insides tickling; two, and he laughs the way a manic would do; three, and his throat suddenly closes.
The beer doesn’t want to go down anymore. His heart’s aching, pounding too hard. He messily gets up, and barely makes it to the kitchen sink.
As he empties his stomach, he knows that this is a lot more than an upset stomach. When there’s nothing left, something unpredictable comes out of his mouth. “Shit…” he says, and an entire line of curses follow. It seems to be the most appropriate way for him to express what he wants.
An escape.
He’s got to clean his soul, to vent out the frustration of having a legal potential for destruction when things get out of hands.
Perhaps this is what actual therapy is like, the one his superiors demand him to take. But if he’s not allowed to scream when he needs to, it definitely won’t work.
Blaming time for existing, Crystal for recruiting young men, Buck for being an idiot, Ian for just being there - everything’s good as long as Don can get it out of his outraged, collapsing system, until he gets to the point of cursing himself.
The process ends. Almost.
Stumbling, he closes the fridge and manages to get back to bed. After lying down, he opens the second drawer of his meaningless nightstand and finds his pills.
He stares at them, just trying to imagine if they’d do any good. He takes one anyway, not even bothering to get some water to make swallowing easy. Then Don turns off the light.
Darkness is what he deserves. Even if it doesn’t provide any kind of new, fresh perspective, at least it echoes the internal faults he needs to fix.
The pillow’s soft, comforting. Flashes of red and white flooded his senses, overlapping with the shadowed objects in the room. Every corner seems to become another crime’s home.
Slowly, the memories of his victim’s bleeding head start to fade away.
Karma will come and fix the balance of life.
Quietness arrives, and silence deepens. Don’s breathing has calmed down. The pill has obviously done its job. Some things are fading, disappearing from view; others have their shapes distorted by the wishes he can’t make come true.
He wonders if anyone would care if he’d scream loud again, right now. Obviously not. He’s alone. There’s no backup for a mind that’s made to make bad decisions and a heart that’s used to aching.
But as much as Don wants to let himself speak with more honesty than before, he loses his energy and welcomes the sleep that may temporarily repair the damage he’s done.
And then he notices that not everything is quiet.
There are sounds coming from outside his bedroom. He suddenly can’t remember who could have the key.
Someone opens the bedroom door. A ray of light comes in and, somehow, a little hope of understanding suits Don’s eagerness to clean his soul.
Go to the Sequel
Word Count: 788.
Characters: Don, mention of Crystal Hoyle, Buck Winters and Ian, ?.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: 3x01 - Spree and 3x02 - Two Daughters.
Summary: He knew that, inevitably, regrets would eat and chew his brain, but he wasn’t expecting the adrenaline of his mistake to remain for so long inside his body, marking his soul.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Numb3rs.
Beta: The fantastic
twins_m0mand the great lillyg.
A/N: This is a little experiment of mine. It started as a drabble for numb3rs100but the plot bunny was fed with coffee and this is the result.
Clean
That shot was clean. Only one was needed, and it was accurate.
He just held the rifle and pulled the trigger. He was determined to put an end to the situation.
Maybe too much.
But it doesn’t matter now since Crystal Hoyle is dead, does it?
Tonight, lying in his bed, Don realizes how messed up his mind could be. He sits up, hearing something tick, and he instinctively finds the clock. It drags his whole attention; he can’t make his eyes abandon the admiration - or the tragedy - of such an evil device.
He can’t turn back time, and he knows it. Yet that doesn’t mean it’s an easy fact to bear.
It’s not like what Ian did. He did the dirty job, while Don took care of the most questionable part - allowing it.
He knew that, inevitably, regrets would eat and chew his brain, but he wasn’t expecting the adrenaline of his mistake to remain for so long inside his body, marking his soul.
Every regret means it’s too late.
The lamp’s light makes it all look banal. He can’t cope if everything’s so normal, like today is like any other day. This is not the usual situation, but there’s the risk of it becoming one.
Barefoot, Don decides to leave the bed where all his negativity and his pain concentrate. He’s stood there watching the clock for too long, and that’s not pursuing a real change.
The kitchen will do for a few minutes. He does need some light, but only the one coming from the fridge. Door open, beer in hand, cold air getting to his nerves, he lets himself slide onto the floor and enjoys the taste of his future state of drunkenness.
One sip and he feels his insides tickling; two, and he laughs the way a manic would do; three, and his throat suddenly closes.
The beer doesn’t want to go down anymore. His heart’s aching, pounding too hard. He messily gets up, and barely makes it to the kitchen sink.
As he empties his stomach, he knows that this is a lot more than an upset stomach. When there’s nothing left, something unpredictable comes out of his mouth. “Shit…” he says, and an entire line of curses follow. It seems to be the most appropriate way for him to express what he wants.
An escape.
He’s got to clean his soul, to vent out the frustration of having a legal potential for destruction when things get out of hands.
Perhaps this is what actual therapy is like, the one his superiors demand him to take. But if he’s not allowed to scream when he needs to, it definitely won’t work.
Blaming time for existing, Crystal for recruiting young men, Buck for being an idiot, Ian for just being there - everything’s good as long as Don can get it out of his outraged, collapsing system, until he gets to the point of cursing himself.
The process ends. Almost.
Stumbling, he closes the fridge and manages to get back to bed. After lying down, he opens the second drawer of his meaningless nightstand and finds his pills.
He stares at them, just trying to imagine if they’d do any good. He takes one anyway, not even bothering to get some water to make swallowing easy. Then Don turns off the light.
Darkness is what he deserves. Even if it doesn’t provide any kind of new, fresh perspective, at least it echoes the internal faults he needs to fix.
The pillow’s soft, comforting. Flashes of red and white flooded his senses, overlapping with the shadowed objects in the room. Every corner seems to become another crime’s home.
Slowly, the memories of his victim’s bleeding head start to fade away.
Karma will come and fix the balance of life.
Quietness arrives, and silence deepens. Don’s breathing has calmed down. The pill has obviously done its job. Some things are fading, disappearing from view; others have their shapes distorted by the wishes he can’t make come true.
He wonders if anyone would care if he’d scream loud again, right now. Obviously not. He’s alone. There’s no backup for a mind that’s made to make bad decisions and a heart that’s used to aching.
But as much as Don wants to let himself speak with more honesty than before, he loses his energy and welcomes the sleep that may temporarily repair the damage he’s done.
And then he notices that not everything is quiet.
There are sounds coming from outside his bedroom. He suddenly can’t remember who could have the key.
Someone opens the bedroom door. A ray of light comes in and, somehow, a little hope of understanding suits Don’s eagerness to clean his soul.
Go to the Sequel