Hands over a plastic bag of bioluminescent plankton. "This reminds me of you."
blinks at him for a solid minute and a half, confused look painted on pale features before detective slowly takes the bag from holden’s hand. “..thank you? i... think?” // @hntsman
RICHARD KNOWS EXACTLY HOW AND WHY THIS HAPPENED. That didn’t fix it though. Nothing would. Nothing makes this any better. Nothing changes the fact Holden is dead. Holden is dead and its his fault.
He’s scared, confused. The room was dark. He couldn’t see. Richard didn’t know what was happening - why he did that. Why didn’t he just think - why did he even touch his weapon? Hot, unforgiving dread drops in the detective’s stomach - eyes wide and lips parting as if to say something but only closing again as a wavering tone cuts through the silence. “Holden..?”
That’s where they’d found him.
Curled up in a tiny ball, hands pulling at fist fulls of his own dark hair, blood covering his arms, his chest. Even his face. The gun is on the ground, not far away. Dropped in sudden panic, abandoned to its own fate as the detective’s mind set about destroying him from the inside out. He’s breathing, he thinks, but air doesn’t reach his head. It doesn’t reach his burning chest as ribs shift to iron, unyielding even as Richard gasps for breath. There’s a quiet chorus repeated between struggling breaths, throat clamping down and chest tightening unforgivingly tight, muscles tense even as he tries to move - tries to do anything but look at the pool of crimson around Holden’s body.
“No no no--Holden-- no no--please... Please no--”
It took an hour for them to coax the detective from the furthest corner away from the body - from the blood. From the reality of what he did. This couldn’t be happening. There’s too much for him to process, too much for Richard to think about. This isn’t his usual numb sensation. This... This hurts. That fact. That single fact replays in Richard’s mind over and over - violently flinching away from the offered help. Who called back up? He knows he didn’t. The detective’s body convulses - tightening impossibly further as if his body is trying to repay Holden.
He did this. He killed the one person he’d grown to understand. He panicked and pulled his gun on his friend. He shot Holden. Holden’s dead. The detective knew that much the moment he collapsed to his knees next to the blood stained frame that just tried to say his name.
IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS. Three months since Richard shot and killed his partner. Since Richard’s mind set itself alight and failed to put out the blaze of paranoia, guilt and pure terror, his own personal hell realised in no longer than 30 seconds. He watched the crimson drag Holden’s life from his body as he stood there doing nothing. Richard didn’t do anything. The sound of the gun clattering to the ground is the only thing the detective remembers before there’s nothing but a haze. A haze of blood and panic.
Three months and continual reports of ‘good condition’ to Fowler and Richard was allowed back to work. Vision lingering far too long on the now emptied and reassigned desk across from his own, physically fighting back the wave of nausea that comes from seeing a different face there. Being reminded of what happened - of what he did. Richard has to ignore the looks of pity from around him. Of course everyone knew what happened - why wouldn’t they? Richard, the one person here who’s never used his firearm, killed his partner. Shot him in the throat.
As if trying to block out the looks, needing something to take his mind off of it - something to keep his mind busy - the detective pulls out a drawer, looking for that something as his movements border on desperate to find--
He knew this was too soon. Knew he shouldn’t have come back. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
It sits there, in his desk drawer - staring at Richard accusingly - as if he’d murdered-- And then he remembers he did. He did murder Holden. He recognises the writing, fighting back that same nausea again - that same sinking, spinning, out of control dread. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. Not now. Why now? There’s heat somewhere in the detective’s frame, heat he doesn’t understand as a suitably trembling hand finds the folded paper.
Unfolding it took longer. Far longer than Richard was ready for. Grey hues lock with the scrawled heart on the pale backing, teeth burying themselves in the inside of his cheek - drawing blood and bringing forth a shaky breath.
‘Hi Richard. I love you. Dinner? xx’
There’s not even a second of time that passes, vision lingering on love, before the tears come thick and fast, breaths shudder through the detective’s frame - weak from months of neglect - as the paper is crumpled in the detective’s grip. He doesn’t care everyone’s watching - he doesn’t care that he’s in the middle of the precinct. He doesn’t care at all. Sobs tear through Richard’s frame, clutching the paper to his chest. The date. The date written neatly in the corner. It’s that day. That day he killed his partner and had no choice but to continue the rest of his life with that guilt, with his worst fear being recognised - with the knowledge he’ll never forget what happened.
He’s there, crying and shaking and struggling to breath, when Richard begins to struggle to breathe again. It wraps around cracked ribs, tears at his skin and tightens his throat in it’s ruthless attack on his frame. He didn’t want it to stop. It was his fault. He deserved this. He killed Holden.
His voice is quiet, barely there as Richard’s eyes squeeze tightly shut - ignoring the tears that fall down gaunt features - the paper is drawn to his lips as he mutters. As his voice runs away with him.
“I’m sorry--I’m sorry--sorry... I love you--I didn’t--It was... I’m sorry--”
> @hntsman // cont. // aka i should not be allowed up this late.
