Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep by Bronwyn

Jun 09, 2009 23:43

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.


            The only place to start - as far as Donald could figure - was back at the beginning, which was why he knocked on Jennifer Parkinson’s door five months after he’d done it the first time.  Seven months after her husband Leonard had been the first victim.  Jennifer opened the front door and stared at him.  She looked better than the last time he’d seen her.  Her hair was pulled up into a neat tail and she wore jeans and a t-shirt.  He could hear her kids shouting in the next room.

“Mrs. Parkinson,” Donald said, taking off his sunglasses.  Her eyes hadn’t changed though.  Still the same, hollow stare.  The same one he saw in the mirror every morning.

“I remember you,” she said.  “You’re the private investigator working on Leonard’s case.”  Donald nodded.

“May I come in?” he asked.  Jennifer’s mouth tightened.

“Look, Mr. Scranton,” she started.  Donald cut her off.

“It’s Strachey,” he corrected.  “Donald Strachey.  Timothy Callahan was my husband.”  Pausing, Jennifer studied him for a long silent moment.

“I saw him on the news,” she said finally.  “They found his body last week.”  Donald swallowed hard.

“Yes they did,” he replied.  “May I come in?”  Jennifer shook her head and leaned away from the door.

“Mother!” she shouted.  “I need to step out for a minute.  Watch the kids!”  Without waiting for an answer, she stepped outside and gestured Donald to the porch swing.  Donald sat down and waited as she perched next to him and lit a cigarette.  She held out the pack, but Donald shook his head.  Taking a deep puff, she stared out at the lawn.

“So, what do you want?” she asked finally.

“I’m starting again trying to find this guy,” Donald said, leaning back and following her gaze.  Jennifer shook her head.

“I’m tired of reliving this and I’ve told the cops every damned thing I can think of,” she sighed, pulling in another drag and exhaling slowly through her nose.

“I’m not the cops,” Donald pointed out.  “And I’m not going to shelve this as a cold case.  I am going to find this guy.”  Jennifer looked at him from the corner of her eye.

“And what are you going to do when you find him, Mr. Strachey?” she asked bitterly.  “Bring him to justice?”  Donald shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched a little lower.

“You can call it that if you like.  But I was thinking more of killing him,” he said.  Closing her eyes, Jennifer took a slow breath.

“I want to be there,” she announced firmly.  Donald turned his head to look at her.

“I’ll do my best, but no promises,” he said.  Jennifer opened her mouth.  “You have kids, Mrs. Parkinson.”  Closing her mouth, Jennifer nodded finally.

“All right,” she said, leaning forward to stub out her cigarette.  “What do you need from me?”

***

It took six months.  Six months of living in his office and doing business with the kind of people that used to make him call Bailey for backup.  But after six bloody months of putting together tiny shreds of information, beating a few more shreds out of people and slinging altogether a ridiculous amount of money around - the money from the house came in very handy - Donald had a name and address.

Folding the little slip of paper into his slacks pocket with trembling fingers, Donald staggered into his bathroom to splash cold water on his face.  He stared at his reflection.  His reflection glared back, eyes red and rheumy in a washed out face.  Objectively, he knew he looked terrible - gaunt and drawn from running on coffee and the occasional donut.  From sleeping only when his body finally overruled him and dragged him crashing down into ugly dreams.  He scraped a hand over his jaw, scratching at a week’s worth of stubble.

“Just one more day,” he told the man frowning back at him.  “Just one more day.”

***

Jennifer let him in late that night, with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Well?” she demanded.  “When do we go?”  He gave her an opaque look.

“The kids?” he asked.  She took a drag and blew smoke in his face.

“With my parents for the weekend.  They’re going to some amusement park over in New Jersey,” she replied.  Donald nodded.  Good.  That was good.

“So, when do we go?” she repeated.  Shrugging out of his coat, Donald flung himself on her couch.

“At first light,” he said, making himself comfortable.  “It’s a long drive and I need a couple of hours of sleep first.”  Jennifer nodded.

“I’ll set the alarm,” she called as she headed up the stairs.  Donald draped an arm over his eyes and prayed hopelessly for dreamless sleep.

***

“What’s back there?” Bailey asked, already creeping in that direction.

“Storage closet,” Donald whispered.  “Christmas ornaments and shit.”

“Okay,” Bailey acknowledged.  He settled in front of the door.  “Get the door and go low.”  Donald crouched and reached for the knob.  He jerked the door open and Bailey swung into the dark.

Bailey pulled up short.  Donald stayed crouched, one eye on the door and one on the rest of the attic.

“Jesus, Strachey, get in here,” he said, backing out of the door.  Donald’s chest seized briefly at the horrified note in Bailey’s voice, but he rose cautiously and edged through the door.

“Oh Jesus, Timothy,” he said.  Timmy sat hunched in the corner, face turned into the plywood wall.  He’d covered his head with bound arms and his hands clenched together as if in prayer.  Blood dripped sluggishly from his feet and knees.  Oozed from between his fingers.

Donald holstered his gun and stepped closer.  Timmy flinched away, whining deep in his throat and Donald froze as he realized Tim was shaking.  He knelt just out of arm’s reach.

“Timmy?  Sweetheart, it’s me,” he said.  When Timmy didn’t move, Donald scooted a little closer.  “Timothy, look at me.”  The shaking intensified, but Timmy finally turned his head until he could look past his arm.  Donald felt his expression crumple at the hollow-eyed despair on Timmy’s face.  Timmy’s eyes focused and he blinked slowly.

“Oh please, Timmy,” Donald whispered.  Jerking like he’d been shocked, Timmy dropped his arms and made a noise that might have been Donald’s name.  He reached for Donald, nearly toppling over in his haste.  Donald lunged forward and caught him as he fell.  He gathered Timmy into his lap as Timmy’s fingers clawed at his coat - fisted in his shirt.  Timmy pressed his face into Donald’s shoulder and made a god-awful keening sound that stabbed at Donald’s heart.  Donald clutched him tightly, mindful of bruises.

“Christ, Timmy.  I’ve got you,” he said.  He ghosted a hand over the back of Timmy’s head.  “I’ve got you.  You’re safe.”

“Strachey, wake up!”

Donald jerked awake, arms clutching at something that wasn’t there.  He overbalanced and nearly tumbled off the couch, but someone blocked his fall and shoved him back.  Donald shot upright, gasping.

“Christ, you’re tense,” someone observed.  Wrenching his head around, Donald spotted Jennifer standing at the foot of the sofa watching him.  Dawn peeked dimly around the curtains.

“Sorry.  I wake you?” Donald asked, wiping tears from his face.  Jennifer shook her head.

“Alarm did.  You have a nightmare?” she asked, eyed pensive.  Shaking his head, Donald stretched until his spine cracked.

“No,” he said curtly.  Something in Jennifer’s expression softened slightly.

“Sometimes, I dream Leonard’s fine.  That he’s right there in bed next to me and I can see him.  Touch him.  Hell, I can even smell him, and for a few minutes I’m so happy even though somewhere in my head I know it’s a dream,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.  “Then I wake up alone and he’s long dead and I lock myself in the bathroom and cry.”

“I dreamt I saved him,” Donald said, standing up and straightening his clothes.  Scrubbing at her own face, Jennifer pointed to a cup of coffee on the end table.

“Good dreams are worse than the bad ones, I think,” she said.  Donald snorted a soft laugh and drained the coffee in one gulp.

“Yeah,” he agreed.  Snatching up his coat and duffel, he headed for the door.  “Let’s get this show on the road.”

***

In the end, it proved to be almost absurdly simple.  Donald just walked up behind the guy on the street in broad daylight and hit him in the small of the back with a tazer.  The guy’s legs buckled, and Donald shoved him head first into the back of the rental car Jennifer had pulled up alongside them.

A twenty minute drive to the guy's own house and between the two of them, they’d managed to wrestle his unconscious body into a sturdy kitchen chair and tie him down.  Now it was just down to waiting for the bastard to wake up.

“I’m tired of this shit,” Jennifer announced suddenly.  Grabbing a bottle of vinegar from the cupboard, she upended it over the guy’s head.  He came to spluttering.

“What the fuck!” he shouted, struggling against the zip-ties that held him.

“Richard Applegate,” Donald said mildly from his perch on the kitchen table.  The man’s attention snapped around.

“What?” he demanded.  Donald shifted slightly.

“You’re Richard Applegate,” he said again.  Applegate raised his chin.

“What of it?  Who’re you?” he asked.

“Donald Strachey.  That’s Jennifer Parkinson,” Donald said, jerking his chin at Jennifer.  She waggled her fingers in greeting.

“I don’t know you,” Applegate said confidently.

“No, you don’t,” Donald agreed.  “But we have some people in common.”  Reaching for the envelope next to him, Donald shook out a stack of pictures and sorted through them.

“Leonard Parkinson,” he said, holding up the first picture so Applegate could see him.  Applegate’s eyes widened.

“My husband,” Jennifer interjected.  Donald held up the second picture.

“Ralph Kapinsky.”  A third picture.

“John Addler.”  A fourth, fifth and sixth.

“Bernard Christie.  Lawrence King.  Patrick Morgan.”  Applegate’s eyes had gone perfectly round.  Donald held up the seventh picture.

“Timothy Callahan.  My husband,” Donald said. His voice cracked sharply and he took a deep breath.  Jennifer stepped towards him, but Donald shook his head and continued.  He held up two more pictures.  “Myers Kent and Toby Lazenbee.”  Applegate swallowed hard.

“So, I suppose you’re here to arrest me then?” he asked, almost hopefully.  Jennifer laughed, harsh and cackling.  Donald smiled.

“Not a chance.  We’re here to kill you,” he said.  Jennifer hitched an angry sob.

“Just fucking do it, Donald,” she said.  Tipping an imaginary hat to her, Donald drew his gun.

“You heard the lady,” he said, and shot Applegate right between the eyes.

***

Donald sat on the end of his bed - the only piece of furniture he’d taken from the house.  Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he ran through his checklist.

Jennifer home and safe.  Check.

Rental car returned.  Check.

Files in order, copies mailed to Bailey and summary in the envelope.  Check, check and check.

Letters to Mattie and the Callahans mailed.  Check.

Gun.  Right.  Donald unholstered his gun and laid it carefully on the dresser.  Check.

Okay then.  He was ready.  Donald laid a large manila envelope on the dresser next to the gun.  Kicking off his shoes, he padded into the bathroom and scooped up the handful of pills he’d left by the sink.  Popped them into his mouth three by three, washing them down with vodka until they were gone.  Leaning against the counter, he flipped open his phone and sent the text he’d had saved to Bailey.

Everything taken care of.  Weaving slightly, Donald stumbled back into the bedroom and crawled up onto his side of the bed.  He curled on his side with one hand on Timmy’s pillow.  Vaguely, he wondered how long this would take.  He really wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be too long given how tired he felt.

His eyelids drooped, and Donald snapped them open automatically.  Sleeping had been so fucking hard lately.  But now, now all he had to do was relax.  Distantly, he realized his feet were cold and thought about pulling up the covers.  Decided he couldn’t be bothered.  He yawned.

“Goodnight Timmy,” he whispered.  “I love you.”  And closed his eyes.

***

Bub Bailey stared mistrustfully at the manila envelope with his name on it.  Forensics had bagged and tagged it at the scene and then released it to him.  There’d been a tape, a set of keys and a small sheaf of papers inside.

Deciding to start with the keys, he held them up in their little plastic bag, twisting it until he could read the label.  Donald’s Office.  Okay then.  Fairly self-explanatory.  Upon examination the papers proved to be some sort of case summary, and Bailey set them aside for later.  That just left the tape.  Shit.

With a sigh, Bailey slid the tape into the VCR and hit play.  Almost immediately Strachey appeared on the screen in the clothes he’d been found in.  Recently made then.

“Hey Bub,” Strachey said.  “I know this is going to be a fuck of a lot of paperwork for you, so I thought I’d try to make this as unambiguous as possible.”  Strachey smiled weakly and held up a pile of papers.  He stuffed them in the envelope and held that up to the camera too.  Same ones that now sat on Bailey’s desk.

“If you look in the case summary, you’ll find an address out west of Albany in the middle of nowhere.  It’s a house owned by a Richard Applegate.  Inside, you’ll find Applegate zip-tied to a kitchen chair. Dead as a doornail, might I add.”  Strachey smiled viciously.  “I shot the bastard.  He was your serial killer, Bub.  And I found him first.”  Letting out a long sigh, Strachey let the envelope drop to his lap and dragged a hand through his hair.

“In my office, there’s a set of red files in the top drawer of the filing cabinet all labeled with Timmy’s name.  It’s all there.  Every source I tapped.  Every lead I checked.  Every thing verified and re-verified.  No mistakes.  I was very, very careful, Bub.  Just to keep things neat.  The keys to my office are in the envelope -” Strachey shook the envelope in demonstration.  “And the envelope will be on my dresser.”

Setting the envelope aside, Strachey suddenly teared up.  He pulled his feet up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“I never blamed you, Bub,” he said.  “You sweated blood for this, and I appreciate it.  None of this is your fault.”  Strachey sobbed out a laugh.

“There’s a part of me that wants to turn myself in and pay for what I’ve done, but I just can’t.  I don’t have the energy anymore, Bub.  I miss Timmy so goddamned much, and I am so fucking tired.  So I’m doing it this way.  You do whatever you have to.  Don’t let them put your ass in a sling.”  Another hiccupping sob.

“Jesus, Bub, I’m sorry.  This is a fucking awful thing to do to you, but it’s done, you know.  So thanks for being a friend and doing your job.  I won’t forget it and I know Timmy appreciates it.  I just can’t help thinking that it wasn’t supposed to go this way.  Somewhere we skipped a step.”  Strachey wiped his face, and set his feet back on the floor.

“I gotta go, Bub.  Timmy’s waiting and it’s about time I got some fucking sleep.  Bye.”

In the image Strachey leaned forward and reached for the camera and the image went dark.

“Well fuck,” Bailey muttered and ejected the tape.

***

“I’m too heavy for this,” Timmy mumbled.  Donald wrapped his arms around Timmy’s chest and kissed the side of his head.

“Let me worry about that,” he ordered.  Timmy nodded sleepily, bringing his hands up to cover Donald’s.  Donald held him until he slipped off to sleep again.  Tomorrow there would be depositions and paperwork - questions and interrogations and probably very few answers.  Donald didn’t care.

Right now, Timmy slept safe and mostly whole in his arms and everything else could wait.  When he was sure Timmy was deeply under and dreaming peacefully, Donald allowed himself to unwind and tumble after.

Thank God.

Part 1

[a]bronwynferchdai, [m]fanfiction, [thon] 2009 round 1

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