Like Lines on a Mirror
by ALC Punk!

No one else seems to.

It's just fucking, really. And not great sex, either.

Dave gave up on love a long time ago. Probably even before Kerry ended their marriage. Maybe even before they'd met. He isn't sure anymore, of anything. Except maybe what it feels like to be whole for those precious seconds of pleasure.

Not that it's nice, or good, pleasure. When they come together, it's rarely pleasant, but full of hate and pain.

It started when he told her. It didn't matter anymore why he had. Maybe he'd wanted to see the hurt in her eyes, the startled moment of pain before her anger flared.

She'd asked him once before about him and Hannah, and he'd lied. Said it was grief. Maybe it was. Except that now he wanted to get back at Mark. Hurt him, as Mark's betrayal had hurt. In a twisted way, screwing his fiancé had been the proper way to do it. Not that Mark was alive anymore to appreciate it.

"How could you?" Taylor had demanded, so angry. Hurt, too. Some part of her drawing back from him. Bruised.

"I'm a man, I fuck, remember?" he'd snapped, stark lines pulling at his face, at the thin scars along his shoulders. Pain had flared from that, but he ignored it as he ignored all of the twinges from the other burns. Petrol, match, and the pain was so intense you weren't sure if you were really hurting or you were dead.

Ugly words, ugly thoughts ran through her, and so she hit him, the world coloring grey with pain. He let her, the sound of her fist connecting with his flesh loud in the suddenly still room.

Just home from hospital and already he was hurting himself again.

She didn't understand, then.

He caught her when she tried again, and they grappled, both angry, both desperate. Both grieving still. And then it changed to something else.

It was dirty and fast and messy, brutal, and she wondered at herself for her ready response. Was she supposed to cry at the end, as they separated, and she dressed in silence? He didn't look at her. She couldn't look at him.

You weren't supposed to fuck colleagues.

Not like that, certainly. And not under the noses of your superiors. Could get you written up for moral misconduct, sexual discrimination, a list of charges she didn't want on her record. He probably didn't care.

Didn't matter.

The first time should have been a fluke. Something that happened just the one time. It wasn't. A series of angry, pain-filled couplings followed. Sometimes it was her on top, sometimes he. Both needed this, mindless for anything other than the void inside. It was insatiable, erupting from brutal arguments, shouting matches that echoed around the lobby of the OSC building.

Oh, so casual. Leave, look like you're separate. But you always know he'll be there. She'll be there.

Susan couldn't remember what sex was for anymore. Pleasure? Pain? Once, it might have been for comfort.

Now, it was frenzied, clothes-ripping fucking. Something almost mechanical that left them dry and unfulfilled, the emptiness inside still echoing.

She wonders if they'll ever learn. If it ever stops--the void fills.

There's no one to blame, in the end. Their jobs, their lives, their families. All cheap outs. They should have mattered. They didn't now.

Nothing did except the hurting--hurting him as he hurt her back. That one moment when the world went away, the void filled. But he would cry out, and the echoes would shatter the stillness, and they'd be back in a bed, sweaty and slick.

Sometimes, she's pinning him down, mindless except that she's in control. Or he is. They're never sure anymore. Sometimes they hit, the blows landing on soft tissue, the torso and legs. Bruises are easy to hide that way. And Enwright keeps asking about skinned knuckles.

The new kid sees, maybe. The circles under their eyes. The deadness in their souls.

But he's smarter than Enwright. He merely asks if they'd like more coffee.

Of course, they don't hit at work. Ever. Losing it is unprofessional, bar the few loud arguments. No, they wait until they're at her flat, or his. And then she blacken his ribs while he fucks her, sweat drops falling into each others' eyes. And they aren't tears, they couldn't be.

They've both passed the psych evals, knowing the dodges, sliding through the cracks and seeming sane.

Enwright doesn't think they are--he still thinks they should be grieving over Mark. Lost in their own worlds, crying over the murdered friend who had meant something.

But he doesn't have to deal, does he. Not with the pain they see every day, the people, the blood. Dirty emotions ripped from primitive centers of the brain and splattered across walls and floors and ceilings. Crippled, strangled, burnt alive. Enwright merely hears.

No room left in either for tears, no place for either to feel clean.

Dave once said Kerry had smothered him after he'd been shot. "Couldn't take a shit without her knowing." he'd turned to her. "You don't smother me, do you, Susan."

"Never." She'd run a hand down his thigh, "Shut up and fuck me."

He sometimes calls Kerry's name as he comes. She retaliates with Terry, or John, or Roger. Old lovers filling that vengeance.

It should have felt twisted, this hurting each other. But normality felt wrong. Felt flat. And she had tried to pick up the normal type of stray, and it had ended miserably. None of them were him.

And there was so much emptiness to fill that the not-hurting never happened.

Sometimes she traces his scars, almost gentle. He's asleep then, lost to consciousness. And she can't see those hollow blue eyes, just the shiny skin under her fingers. Her fault.

Maybe he'd tell her they weren't, but she never says anything. And he's soon awake again, and for a short time it might almost be good.

But the pain slides back in, life turns ugly.

Mark wouldn't have ever understood this. It was so far from the way he'd operated, he would have consigned them both to the loony bin.

He hadn't been able to handle their arguments, either. Poking little verbal needles at each other, relieving that tension and pain. Maybe it had been destructive. But they'd scared him off that night. Sent him away, confused and needing to talk. But he couldn't talk to them. And Hannah had been busy.

So he talked to Lawler.

And they found him that next morning.

People think the dead look peaceful, no worries and cares left to them.

Blood spattered, open eyes staring at nothing. And they turned away in horror, not wanting to see, to believe.

Their fault.

Chasing him away with anger.

And it had been such a lovely day, fresh and dewy. No rain, for the first time in a while; the sun shining down cheerfully. Dave had felt rested, spending the night without nightmares of Kerry or Annie. Susan was coming back from a quick screw with the sergeant--nice lad, if a bit dense at times.

Dave saw the blood, first. The quick spatters, the pattern of droplets that signified something very wrong.

He couldn't understand who it would be. There were no women either of them knew--Taylor was there, it wasn't her. It wasn't until he'd opened the trunk of his car that he knew. That he realized.

But there was no time to grieve, then. No time to do anything but make those calls. Crime scene, crime lab, coroner. And Susan standing nearby the whole time, her eyes full of something that should have scared him. Later. Later they'd think, they'd remember.

And Susan would crack, her voice shaking and full of self-hate while Lawler stood in front of her, his chest bare.

"Is this where you did it to him? With this?" She waves the knife, eyes full of darkness.

"Don't do this, Taylor."

But she has to. She must. Because Rivers is dead, and he isn't coming back. And Lawler is alive.

And maybe if he hadn't stopped her. Maybe if Lawler had died that day. Maybe they wouldn't be where they are now. But she can't tell, these days. Life is shit, and the people who live it, know it.

Instead of sweetness, there's pain. Instead of love... something that might be hate.

They don't know anymore what it is. So many different emotions wrapped up together, warped--and Taylor once thought she wasn't like Creegan at all. Oh, no. She was a great detective, one of the best. And Dave was a loony, loose cannon and all.

"I hate you."

So many things go through his mind. He's arching, driving into her, reaching for that moment.

They're in his flat, this time. The room disordered, books thrown for no reason, papers strewn. She'd kicked them, angry, raging as they fell into bed.

A hand catches his hair and he's forced to look into her eyes. So blue and dull, but there's something else now. "I hate me. I hate you." She shoves him, pulling away and scrambling out of his bed to stand naked on the paper-strewn floor. Her body's shaking with emotions: anger, hatred, self-loathing. "This is wrong."

"Yes." How can he not agree?

There's nothing she can say to that. She sags and backs until she collapses onto the clothes-covered easy chair. A book thumps to the floor. "This has to end." She sounds almost lost now. Defeated.

He doesn't like that sound. "Probably." Dave curls on his side, watching her.

"I should have killed him."

It always seems to come back to this. "No."

"Why not?" But she's looking away, mouth sad.

"It wouldn't have been a good thing."

"And this is?" Harsh lines pull her face taut. "This unending pain and degradation? This isn't us, Creegan--it shouldn't be."

Flopping to his back, he suddenly feels despair. If this ends, what more is there? He could pay for comfort, but it is himself he wants to hurt, not faceless whores. Funny how he can hurt Taylor...

"This has to end," she repeats. Her voice almost desperate, grasping at straws that aren't there and never were.

He turns to the wall, pulling the covers around his suddenly shivering body. "You know where the door is."

"Yes." She's moved, her voice closer. And the weight of her moves the bed slightly. Under the covers she creeps, almost seeking comfort. But that's not what they're about. One leg slips between his two, a hand cups his hip. Her breath is on his shoulder.

"I thought this was ending."

"Too cold and late." She's sleepy now, her voice exhausted and drained. Emotion stole every vital energy from her.

"Ah."

"Besides. I don't want to come back and find you dead."

He stiffens. Anger flares through him... And fear. She knows him too well.

"Go to sleep, Dave."

--

Early morning sunlight wakes her, and Susan sleepily considers not getting out of bed this morning. Then reality intrudes, the male form curled next to her shifts, and it all comes flooding back. She ducks from his sleepy kiss and crawls from the bed to stand naked in the pre-dawn light.

"Mm." Dave leans up on one arm and smiles lazily at her. "Lovely view."

She ignores him in favor of pulling a pair of clean panties from her drawer. It was one of the few perks they'd allowed themselves. Made it simpler to appear fresh the next day. And a few different shirts and jackets in her office made it seem almost right. Pulling on the rest of her clothes, she looks at Dave. "I'll get a bag for the rest of this."

Dave drags himself out of bed as she stuffs her few belongings into her purse and a brown paper bag. Her toothbrush went in, unused. "Shall I come over later and get my things?"

"No." Susan faces him, eyes strangely calm. "I'll mail you."

"Considerate."

She shakes her head, "I don't want to fall back into bad habits, Dave."

"Are you sure they're bad?"

"Aren't you?"

They look at each other, silent. Then as if an unspoken signal passes between them, they turn away. Creegan dresses quickly, and joins her for burnt toast and coffee in the kitchen.

"Do you want to leave first, or shall I?"

She looks at him, almost bored. "Does it matter?"

"No." He turns away, searching among the mugs in his cupboard. "Do you still want this Lister mug?"

"Keep it. You're very him."

He makes a face, but doesn't reply as he sets the mug back down. "So this is it."

"Yeah." She sets down her half-finished mug. "Should go to work."

With a shrug, he turns and stalks towards the front door. "Oh, yes. Can't keep the criminals waiting. Couldn't have that. They might get up to something."

"Stop it."

He whirls, a smile gracing his lips. "Stop what?"

"Pretending you're fine. You're not. I'm not. This is not."

"So perceptive of you, Taylor."

"You made me this way, Creegan." She bites out, stalking towards him. "All those questions, the way you felt, moved--it opened my mind in ways I thought it couldn't."

"This is all my fault then."

"No. It's both our faults. That's why it has to end."

He looks at her, his shoulders slumping, the sunlight coming through a crack in the window shades catching on one of the shiny patches of skin the fire had left him with. "I don't--"

"You do."

"Fine. I do." He points at her. "But... why now?"

"It's the right time." She shrugs.

"Let's go to work, then."

Resigned now, the both of them. Things will be different, should be. There's... not hope. But they won't be hurting each other anymore, and maybe it's enough. And they end up leaving together.

Both so lost in thought, they don't notice the man watching them from under the street lamp. Or the way he makes a careful note on the pad of paper in his hand. But then, they haven't noticed him for an entire week. Perhaps it isn't only being lost in thought that makes their senses dull.

--

Enwright called them into his office later that day. They were surprised, but assumed he wanted to talk about a new case. Possibly, he wanted their opinions of Martin.

"How long has this been going on?" Commander Steven Enwright. A hard man, but intelligent.

And so very angry with his two top detectives.

Taylor shrugs. "Not very." Months, years.... Less.

"Well it stops now." He breaks the pencil in his hand. "Christ, don't you two know any better?"

"Yes." Creegan nods at the pencil. "You'll have to tape that now. Or requisition a new one. Think they'll let you?"

"Bugger this pencil--you have both broken rules. Rules that are there for a reason." He straightens. "The time for consequences has come. Full psych profiles on each of you, and an impartial witness will judge where we go from there. But for now, I want your badges and guns. As of this moment, you're suspended from active duty."

Probably, it is the silent divesting of paraphernalia. The lack of response from either, as if they don't care (and they don't, and they can't, because it's ended and now it's going to begin again). Because he stops them before they left his office. "What is wrong with you?"

"How's Lawler these days, sir?" Creegan's voice is vaguely bored. Taylor flinches at the name, one hand clenching into a fist. "Still alive? Still writing his appeals?"

And he understands, suddenly. Mockery skitters in him. "My god. You're both shattered. One man dies under your watch, and you both lose it." Scorn in his eyes. "Why don't you look into early retirement."

"He should be dead." Vicious, venomous anger, riddled with guilt echoes from Taylor's voice. She stares at Enwright through hollow, dark-encircled eyes. "Creegan stopped me. It would have been so clean and quick, and Mark--"

"Don't be stupid." But Enwright sounds appalled at what she's saying. "Let the law handle it."

"Oh, it handled it well, didn't it." And now the scorn is in her eyes. "Can't even get a conviction while his lawyer pleads him for insanity."

Creegan looks at her. "We've been through this. You know it was the only way."

"And Rivers is still dead, Creegan."

"You both mucked it up. What did you to do that night--fuck, while he was off getting himself murdered?" Enwright wants to shock them, to shake them from this circle of self-destruction. And a part of him has always wanted to know what happened that night to send young Mark Rivers to his death.

They stare at him, startled. As if they had expected something else. Scorn, maybe. It's Taylor who finally answers, sagging in her chair as she looks into the middle distance of her memories. "We were bickering. Arguing. Dave always hated having someone else in charge--but we were working it out..."

"He didn't like conflict," Creegan supplies. "Mark was--he was much more peaceful. Did you know he'd always lied to Hannah about his job? Told her he worked in vice." He shakes his head. "She knew, of course. I think that's why--"

"Why she expected me, that day," Susan interrupts him. She shakes her head, bitter. "I walked in to her listening to his messages. His voice, a life-line."

Creegan finds himself wanting to reach out and catch her hand. It reminds him of the night Lawlor was captured. That moment when they'd let their guards down and cried together. Mourned the loss of someone who had been a friend, who was a colleague.

Things have changed. For the better, for the worse. Definitely for the worse. He shakes his head again. "This gets us nowhere, sir. You've suspended us, you're taking our side arms. What more do you want?"

"I want the truth."

"Fine." Taylor stands. "I tried to kill Lawlor. Creegan stopped me. End of story. Now, I'm going to go clean out my desk and go home for the day." She turns and jerks open the door.

"Wait."

"No."

The door slams behind her, and the sound of her heels can be heard clicking on the marble in the corridor. Enwright looks at Creegan. "You were right. She is a liability."

"Was I?" With a shake of his head, Creegan stands, "Or was I as wrong as you were about me?"

"That's in the past."

"No. It isn't." He leans forward, eyes intent on Enwright. "What you're planning will ruin her career."

"And yours."

"I don't give a shite about mine."

"You never have," Enwright notes, suddenly sad. "Even in the beginning..."

"What's past is past."

"And the future will take care of itself?" Enwight mocks him, "Creegan, you're more of a fool than I'd thought you were."

With a sigh, Dave opens the door, "Don't judge her, Stephen. Not until you've been there yourself."

--

It's a footnote in an otherwise illustrious career. Discipline notice for one Detective Inspector Susan Talyor for conduct unbecoming. Her punishment was a move back to the streets, a beat to run.

Within six months, she was back at the OSC.

For Detective Inspector Dave Creegan, retirement was the better option.

-f-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!