Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep by Bronwyn
Title: Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep
Pairings: Donald/Timmy
Rating: R
Spoilers: Do spoilers for my own stories count? Because there are enormous ones for Modus Operandi.
Summary: A seriously dark and ugly AU from a previous story of mine.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine. After what I’ve done, I don’t think I deserve them anyway.
Warning: I cried the entire time I wrote this. I’m really sorry guys. You maybe shouldn’t read this.
Author’s Note: Seriously. This bit hard and if you’re tender-hearted (schnuffie NO!) don’t read this. For kalyw - who live-action beta’d (which was AWESOME) approximately 10 minutes ago so this could go up. I do mean that literally.
“Christ,” Bailey sighed. The resignation in his voice hit Donald like a punch. Oh God. Timmy.
“We’re too late,” he murmured. He swayed a little, spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Bailey grabbed his shoulders.
“Jesus, Strachey, breathe,” he ordered. “In and out. Real slow.” Donald realized he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t seem to get his breathing under control.
“Timmy,” he gasped. Bailey shook him hard - shoved his face close.
“Breathe!” he snapped. “With me.” Bailey inhaled slowly. Donald sucked in a deep breath as the panic eased slightly. After a few minutes of breathing carefully with Bailey, he steadied.
“Okay,” Donald gasped. “I’m okay.”
“Let’s get you out of here before you pass out on me,” Bailey said. Keeping himself between Donald and the wreckage, he towed Donald out the door and through the bedroom.
***
They’d searched the rest of the house from top to bottom. Donald had felt a little flame of hope when they’d clambered up into the attic. When the attic - as well as the rest of the house - proved to be entirely empty, the hope guttered out, leaving Donald with only the burn of acid indigestion and the taste of ashes in his mouth.
“Marcos! Get your ass in gear! We’re going back to that apartment and see if we can figure out where this bastard goes to ground! Call Stenski to meet us!” Bailey shouted, herding Donald out onto the front lawn. Forensics had already arrived and was sweeping slowly and painstakingly through the first floor.
“Pollard,” Bailey continued, snapping his fingers at the big officer who hovered just over Donald’s shoulder. “You stay with him. Get him somewhere safe and keep your heads down. I’ll be in touch.” Pollard nodded, reaching out to cup Donald’s elbow as he wavered on his feet.
“Gotcha, Lieu,” he replied. Donald’s head hurt and he knew he was shaking, but couldn’t seem to stop.
“Bub,” he started. Bailey grabbed his shoulder and squeezed hard.
“We’ll find him, Strachey. I swear to God, we’ll find him,” he promised.
“Thanks,” Donald whispered, nodding jerkily. Bailey peered closely at him for a moment and then broke away, shouting for Marcos. Pollard tugged on Donald’s arm.
“Come on, sir. Let’s get you out of here.”
***
Pollard shuffled Donald into an unmarked police car, drove him to a Denny’s and bought him lunch. Donald poked at the burger until the grease congealed and the fries went limp.
“Sir, you need to eat,” Pollard said quietly.
Donald dragged his attention around.
“What’s your first name, Pollard?” he asked, apropos of nothing. Pollard blinked.
“Dawson, sir,” he replied.
Donald nodded absently.
“Well, Dawson,” he said, pushing the plate to the edge of the table. “If I eat now, I’m going to throw up all over the nice, clean car seat. So just lay the fuck off, okay?” Pollard’s eyes crinkled in worry, but he nodded once and raised a hand for the waitress.
“Can we get the check?” he asked as she approached. “And a to-go box.” Donald raised an eyebrow at him.
“Maybe you’ll be hungry later,” Pollard explained sheepishly. Donald felt one corner of his mouth lift. He doubted it.
***
The safe house was a pleasant little two-story in a quiet little neighborhood. As far as it went, Donald supposed it was nice enough. Beige carpet and not-quite-secondhand furniture. Two little bedrooms upstairs with queen-sized beds and their own bathrooms. The master bedroom downstairs with a much larger bath. Den, dining room, living room and kitchen. The perfect little starter house for the perfect little family.
Or a prison for a desperate man, slowly going insane in the end room.
Donald paced.
Three days. Three days since Timmy vanished without a trace and nothing. Bailey’d torn that apartment down to the bare studs. Ripped up the carpet. Pulled out the sinks. Everything but burnt the wood and breathed the smoke hoping for visions.
Though, that was beginning to look like their only option because Timmy was still missing and Donald’s hamburger was still sitting untouched in the fridge. Pollard kept watch, called Bailey for updates and periodically ordered pizza.
The fourth evening that Donald sat and stared at a slowly cooling piece of meat-lovers without touching it, Pollard finally laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re not helping him by starving yourself,” he said quietly. “He’s going to need you when we find him.” Donald blinked wearily at him for a long moment.
He ate two pieces before his stomach rebelled, and he ran for the bathroom to bring them back up again. Pollard made him drink an enormous glass of orange juice and forced a small, white pill down his throat. Too tired to even swear at him, Donald tumbled into bed and slept dreamlessly.
***
The morning of day eight, Donald woke to the sound of Pollard’s cell phone in the other bedroom. He lay still for a moment fighting the insane feeling that if he just didn’t move that everything would be okay. He’d fall back to sleep and when he woke Timmy would be across from him, snuffling into his pillow as he dreamed. He heard Pollard hang up. Taking a deep breath, Donald forced himself up and out of bed.
By the time Pollard appeared in the doorway to tell him they needed to go down the station, Donald was dressed and waiting by the window.
***
The morgue hadn’t changed.
Still the same industrial stainless steel tables, painfully bright fluorescents and industrial green walls. Donald always wondered about the walls. Were they supposed to be soothing, or to make sure the blood really showed up? Maybe Home Depot’d had a massive green paint sale. He was about to open his mouth and suggest something of the sort when Bailey pushed open a set of swinging doors and waited.
Donald froze in his tracks.
“Bailey,” he pleaded. Bailey’s smooth façade cracked.
“I’m so sorry, Strachey,” he said. Donald licked his lips and crammed his hands in his pockets. He could do this. Timmy needed him to do this. With a nod to Bailey, he walked through the door.
Oh. God. Timmy. The mortician had done her best to clean him up, but there was no hiding what had been done to him. Not even with the sheet pulled up to his chin with only his face showing. Donald forced himself to the edge of the table. Timmy’s face was swollen blue and purple, though a few bruises shaded into sickly apple green. With shaking fingers, Donald brushed Timmy’s bangs back from his forehead - smoothed his hair down against his skull.
He stood for a moment cupping Timmy’s head gently, struggling for control. Glancing down the table, he noticed Timmy’s fingers just peeking out from under the sheet. Slowly, he drew the sheet back just enough to tug Timmy’s hand free. Flawless. Timmy’s hands were untouched and perfect. Long, slender fingers with neatly trimmed nails.
“Fuck,” Donald whispered. He forced numb fingers to cooperate and reverently slid Timmy’s wedding ring off and clenched it in his fist. He laid Timmy’s hand back on the table and pulled the sheet back into place. Moving to the end of the table, he stroked Timmy’s cheek once more. Bending suddenly, he pressed his forehead to Timmy’s.
“I love you, Tim,” Donald whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Donald straightened and folded the sheet up over Timmy’s face. Turning his back on the table, he met Bailey’s eyes.
“It’s Timmy,” he said. “There’s your official identification.” He pulled his wedding ring off and slid Timmy’s onto his finger - nestled his own protectively over it.
“Strachey,” Bailey started. Donald waved him silent and walked away. He made it as far as the men’s room before his knees gave.
Bailey found him there thirty minutes later, curled in the corner under the sink weeping silently into his hands.
***
Donald’s whole life fell apart after that. At least, that’s what Mattie said. Donald called it paring down. He gave Watson to Mattie after he forgot to feed the little guy for the third time and sold the house when he couldn’t bring himself to go back upstairs, much less back into their bedroom.
Mattie reluctantly helped him find a dingy little studio apartment less than a block from his office. Not that Donald stayed there. Instead, he bought a cheap camp cot and set it up behind his desk at the office, gave Kenny an extremely nice severance package and started hunting.
Donald was going to find this guy. He owed Timmy that.
***
Part 2
Pairings: Donald/Timmy
Rating: R
Spoilers: Do spoilers for my own stories count? Because there are enormous ones for Modus Operandi.
Summary: A seriously dark and ugly AU from a previous story of mine.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine. After what I’ve done, I don’t think I deserve them anyway.
Warning: I cried the entire time I wrote this. I’m really sorry guys. You maybe shouldn’t read this.
Author’s Note: Seriously. This bit hard and if you’re tender-hearted (schnuffie NO!) don’t read this. For kalyw - who live-action beta’d (which was AWESOME) approximately 10 minutes ago so this could go up. I do mean that literally.
“Christ,” Bailey sighed. The resignation in his voice hit Donald like a punch. Oh God. Timmy.
“We’re too late,” he murmured. He swayed a little, spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Bailey grabbed his shoulders.
“Jesus, Strachey, breathe,” he ordered. “In and out. Real slow.” Donald realized he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t seem to get his breathing under control.
“Timmy,” he gasped. Bailey shook him hard - shoved his face close.
“Breathe!” he snapped. “With me.” Bailey inhaled slowly. Donald sucked in a deep breath as the panic eased slightly. After a few minutes of breathing carefully with Bailey, he steadied.
“Okay,” Donald gasped. “I’m okay.”
“Let’s get you out of here before you pass out on me,” Bailey said. Keeping himself between Donald and the wreckage, he towed Donald out the door and through the bedroom.
***
They’d searched the rest of the house from top to bottom. Donald had felt a little flame of hope when they’d clambered up into the attic. When the attic - as well as the rest of the house - proved to be entirely empty, the hope guttered out, leaving Donald with only the burn of acid indigestion and the taste of ashes in his mouth.
“Marcos! Get your ass in gear! We’re going back to that apartment and see if we can figure out where this bastard goes to ground! Call Stenski to meet us!” Bailey shouted, herding Donald out onto the front lawn. Forensics had already arrived and was sweeping slowly and painstakingly through the first floor.
“Pollard,” Bailey continued, snapping his fingers at the big officer who hovered just over Donald’s shoulder. “You stay with him. Get him somewhere safe and keep your heads down. I’ll be in touch.” Pollard nodded, reaching out to cup Donald’s elbow as he wavered on his feet.
“Gotcha, Lieu,” he replied. Donald’s head hurt and he knew he was shaking, but couldn’t seem to stop.
“Bub,” he started. Bailey grabbed his shoulder and squeezed hard.
“We’ll find him, Strachey. I swear to God, we’ll find him,” he promised.
“Thanks,” Donald whispered, nodding jerkily. Bailey peered closely at him for a moment and then broke away, shouting for Marcos. Pollard tugged on Donald’s arm.
“Come on, sir. Let’s get you out of here.”
***
Pollard shuffled Donald into an unmarked police car, drove him to a Denny’s and bought him lunch. Donald poked at the burger until the grease congealed and the fries went limp.
“Sir, you need to eat,” Pollard said quietly.
Donald dragged his attention around.
“What’s your first name, Pollard?” he asked, apropos of nothing. Pollard blinked.
“Dawson, sir,” he replied.
Donald nodded absently.
“Well, Dawson,” he said, pushing the plate to the edge of the table. “If I eat now, I’m going to throw up all over the nice, clean car seat. So just lay the fuck off, okay?” Pollard’s eyes crinkled in worry, but he nodded once and raised a hand for the waitress.
“Can we get the check?” he asked as she approached. “And a to-go box.” Donald raised an eyebrow at him.
“Maybe you’ll be hungry later,” Pollard explained sheepishly. Donald felt one corner of his mouth lift. He doubted it.
***
The safe house was a pleasant little two-story in a quiet little neighborhood. As far as it went, Donald supposed it was nice enough. Beige carpet and not-quite-secondhand furniture. Two little bedrooms upstairs with queen-sized beds and their own bathrooms. The master bedroom downstairs with a much larger bath. Den, dining room, living room and kitchen. The perfect little starter house for the perfect little family.
Or a prison for a desperate man, slowly going insane in the end room.
Donald paced.
Three days. Three days since Timmy vanished without a trace and nothing. Bailey’d torn that apartment down to the bare studs. Ripped up the carpet. Pulled out the sinks. Everything but burnt the wood and breathed the smoke hoping for visions.
Though, that was beginning to look like their only option because Timmy was still missing and Donald’s hamburger was still sitting untouched in the fridge. Pollard kept watch, called Bailey for updates and periodically ordered pizza.
The fourth evening that Donald sat and stared at a slowly cooling piece of meat-lovers without touching it, Pollard finally laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re not helping him by starving yourself,” he said quietly. “He’s going to need you when we find him.” Donald blinked wearily at him for a long moment.
He ate two pieces before his stomach rebelled, and he ran for the bathroom to bring them back up again. Pollard made him drink an enormous glass of orange juice and forced a small, white pill down his throat. Too tired to even swear at him, Donald tumbled into bed and slept dreamlessly.
***
The morning of day eight, Donald woke to the sound of Pollard’s cell phone in the other bedroom. He lay still for a moment fighting the insane feeling that if he just didn’t move that everything would be okay. He’d fall back to sleep and when he woke Timmy would be across from him, snuffling into his pillow as he dreamed. He heard Pollard hang up. Taking a deep breath, Donald forced himself up and out of bed.
By the time Pollard appeared in the doorway to tell him they needed to go down the station, Donald was dressed and waiting by the window.
***
The morgue hadn’t changed.
Still the same industrial stainless steel tables, painfully bright fluorescents and industrial green walls. Donald always wondered about the walls. Were they supposed to be soothing, or to make sure the blood really showed up? Maybe Home Depot’d had a massive green paint sale. He was about to open his mouth and suggest something of the sort when Bailey pushed open a set of swinging doors and waited.
Donald froze in his tracks.
“Bailey,” he pleaded. Bailey’s smooth façade cracked.
“I’m so sorry, Strachey,” he said. Donald licked his lips and crammed his hands in his pockets. He could do this. Timmy needed him to do this. With a nod to Bailey, he walked through the door.
Oh. God. Timmy. The mortician had done her best to clean him up, but there was no hiding what had been done to him. Not even with the sheet pulled up to his chin with only his face showing. Donald forced himself to the edge of the table. Timmy’s face was swollen blue and purple, though a few bruises shaded into sickly apple green. With shaking fingers, Donald brushed Timmy’s bangs back from his forehead - smoothed his hair down against his skull.
He stood for a moment cupping Timmy’s head gently, struggling for control. Glancing down the table, he noticed Timmy’s fingers just peeking out from under the sheet. Slowly, he drew the sheet back just enough to tug Timmy’s hand free. Flawless. Timmy’s hands were untouched and perfect. Long, slender fingers with neatly trimmed nails.
“Fuck,” Donald whispered. He forced numb fingers to cooperate and reverently slid Timmy’s wedding ring off and clenched it in his fist. He laid Timmy’s hand back on the table and pulled the sheet back into place. Moving to the end of the table, he stroked Timmy’s cheek once more. Bending suddenly, he pressed his forehead to Timmy’s.
“I love you, Tim,” Donald whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Donald straightened and folded the sheet up over Timmy’s face. Turning his back on the table, he met Bailey’s eyes.
“It’s Timmy,” he said. “There’s your official identification.” He pulled his wedding ring off and slid Timmy’s onto his finger - nestled his own protectively over it.
“Strachey,” Bailey started. Donald waved him silent and walked away. He made it as far as the men’s room before his knees gave.
Bailey found him there thirty minutes later, curled in the corner under the sink weeping silently into his hands.
***
Donald’s whole life fell apart after that. At least, that’s what Mattie said. Donald called it paring down. He gave Watson to Mattie after he forgot to feed the little guy for the third time and sold the house when he couldn’t bring himself to go back upstairs, much less back into their bedroom.
Mattie reluctantly helped him find a dingy little studio apartment less than a block from his office. Not that Donald stayed there. Instead, he bought a cheap camp cot and set it up behind his desk at the office, gave Kenny an extremely nice severance package and started hunting.
Donald was going to find this guy. He owed Timmy that.
***
Part 2