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v-the-adventurer · 6 years

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January (Graceland Angst Fic)

Okay so this is my first time posting any of my own writing on tumblr? I’ve been lurking for years, you guys, years, so I figured it was finally time to contribute. That said, be kind lol. This one isn’t strictly a sickfic, but it does feature some casual emeto so if that’s not your thing, don’t read. Trigger warning for suicide.

Mike slowly drifted into consciousness, waking like every other morning during his placement at Graceland. The orange glow of the rising sun filtered in through the windows and the soft light was gentle as the young agent blinked awake. He let his eyelids fall closed as he stretched his languid body, feeling comfortable and warm beneath the comforter of his now-familiar bed.

Five months had passed since the bureau had sent him out to California, but it had taken a long time for Mike to feel comfortable out west. Between his new job and roommates, the unfamiliar climate, and the lifestyle change that accompanied moving cross country, the agent had had a lot to adapt to. Even the actual house had been difficult to get used to. It was filled to the brim with decor, but it felt like a showroom. Everything was just impersonal enough to remind him that the people in this house were replaceable. It wasn’t--and never would be--a real home.

But nevertheless, Mike had persevered. The culture shock had eventually worn off and he was finally starting to find his footing. He’d warmed up to his housemates, however impossible it had initially seemed. It had started with conversations over breakfast but as the time passed it progressed to nights out at The Drop and excursions to the beach. Things with his roommates were good right now, and Mike wanted more than anything for it to stay that way.

While his life at the house had gotten significantly easier, the same could not be said for his cases. The work he was doing was incredibly draining and he found himself struggling to stay out of the moral grey areas. Countless times he had stepped over the line for a case, but it was easy for him to justify his own actions. He did it to keep evil off the streets, to save people from the world of drugs, to prevent violence. No matter how he did it, he could always comfort himself with the fact that the bad would outweigh the good. Learning to sell your lies was an art, but lately it felt like he was buying too many of his own.

As the agent woke more fully, he reached for his phone to turn off his alarms. He’d woken before they sounded, for some reason, but he paid it little mind as he unlocked the screen. He flicked through his notifications lazily, messages from friends on the east coast who’d already been up for a few hours. There was one from his dad, which was rare. They had a strained relationship in the best of times, which wasn’t exactly conducive to random texts. Mike furrowed his brows as he read the message.

It’s a tough day, stay strong.

At first he was confused. Had the text been meant for someone else? Mike swiped through to the calendar app on his phone, hoping to find a clue there, but as the date flashed across his screen it hit him like a truck. The abrupt realization stole his breath and the sudden nausea he felt had him leaping from bed and running to the bathroom. He retched until he was empty, left gasping for breath over the rim of the toilet.

Today, it had been one year since the day his little sister committed suicide.

The nausea quickly gave way to guilt, and the sudden weight in Mike’s shoulders had him anchored to the spot. He couldn’t breathe past the growing lump in his throat, but Mike knew the pain in his chest was from more than a lack of air. He felt as though all of the wind had been knocked out of him. He was crying, he noticed, as a tear slid down to his chin. How could he have forgotten the worst day of his life?

When the agent was finally able to pull himself up from the tile floor, he only managed to stagger back to his bed. He was exhausted by the short walk, and there was not a chance in hell that he would be going downstairs anytime soon. He was too emotionally drained to see anyone, led alone eat. Depression had crept in like a filthy snake and moving felt like an impossible task. He spent the better part of the morning laying in bed, taking advantage of the fact that the rest of the world was still asleep. He sipped at the cup of water he’d brought with him from the bathroom, but nothing could wash the taste of bile and blood from his mouth.

He needed a distraction, he realized, but music from his headphones could do nothing to console him. The tears steadily flowed as he listened to the quiet chords of songs he had never heard, and as he sank into the sheets he couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. On the east coast today, his family would all be together, mourning together. They would be looking out for each other, watching movies and playing board games to pass the time. But here, in his too-big bed in an empty house, Mike was all alone with his grief.

Except, not really. He knew it was raising a red flag with his roommates that he had yet to come out of his room. They’d likely be concerned, but the last thing he needed was for them to find out. He’d seen “the look” too many times to count in the months since his sister passed, the odd mix of horror, pity, and discomfort that played across the faces of those who heard. It was always followed by a stiff, “I’m sorry for your loss”, and damn if that didn’t make Mike want to punch someone in the face.

The funeral had been one of the hardest days of his life. He’d nearly chosen not to go, unable to find a purpose in it. It wouldn’t bring her back; nothing would. But when he saw the scared, confused eyes of his four year old nephew, the heartbreaking sadness that Mike felt was more compelling than anything he’d experienced in his entire life. So with his nephew resting on his hip, Mike went to the ceremony.

They said he would feel a sense of closure, but as Mike watched them bury her, all he could feel was empty.

He wanted to get drunk, he realized. Impossibly and immeasurably wasted. Maybe the numbing haze of the alcohol would stop the void in his chest from growing. It felt like there was a hole in his lungs, but he hoped beyond hoped that the alcohol would act as a patch. In his biggest show of strength for the day, Mike rose from the bed and slipped into a pair of joggers and a white tee. His muscles ached and he felt vaguely nauseous, but he walked downstairs anyways. He got into the kitchen slowly, mentally preparing himself for the barrage of questions he was sure to receive.

“Where’ve you been, sleepyhead?” Paige teased from the stove, ruffling Mike’s hair as he passed. Mike didn’t really respond beyond a half hearted shrug, moving forward towards his singular focus--booze.

“Mike?” Charlie prompted from across the island. “You in there?” She said it around a laugh, but at his lack of response her teasing morphed into worry. Her concern ticked up another notch as Mike lifted the bottle of gin from their alcohol cabinet and took a large swig.

“Dude, it’s like two o’clock. Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?” Johnny asked after a moment. Mike realized they were all staring at him.

“Not on the east coast,” he mumbled sharply as he retreated from the kitchen with his prize. He felt like a ghost in his own body as he sailed up the stairs, flying under the covers like a robot. The next swig of gin burned all the way down, bringing tears to his eyes. He coughed lightly as the liquid settled in his stomach. His phone buzzed again, a call from his mother, but he let it ring through to voicemail. A shiver ran through him as the events from just one year ago surfaced again in his mind.

He remembered the sound of her voice, the way they’d hugged the last time he left the house. The way that she’d called out to him that she’d see him later, and how she waved at him as he drove away. He also remembered his mother’s screams, the way her face contorted as she sobbed. He remembered the way he’d knelt with her in a pool of bloody water, frozen stiff as the liquid flowed into the next room and stained the carpet. He remembers burning his clothes the next day, and how even after a week’s worth of showers he still hadn’t felt clean. He remembered her lifeless face, now imprinted into the back of his eyelids.

Mike remembered every little detail about that day. How he’d thrown up on the lawn outside the house the moment his sister was taken away, how he’d listened to the zipper of the body bag as it concealed her face for the last time. He remembered shivering in his coat in the biting January wind. He remembered holding his mother until his father arrived. He remembers standing there by himself for hours, not able to bring himself to go back into the house. Neighbors had suffocated them with casserole and gardenias for the next few weeks, but almost as soon as she was in the ground, Ashlyn Marie Warren was forgotten by the world.

As Mike took the last swig from the bottle and rose from the bed, he felt a familiar numbness creep into his limbs. Maybe it was the inebriation but all of a sudden he was ready to face his housemates. He stumbled his way downstairs, depositing the empty bottle into the sink.

“Mike?” Paul called out, stepping into the kitchen from the living room. “You okay?”

And of course Mike opens his mouth to say yes, but then he vomits instead. The gin burns worse on its way back up, and Mike is sure now that he shouldn’t have had an entire fifth on an empty stomach. Paul lunged for a bucket as Mike retched again, catching the sick before it could land on the floor with the rest of Mike’s stomach. Paul’s hand is on his shoulder once he’s done, guiding him around the puke to sit at one of the barstools. Miraculously, none of the vomit had landed on his clothes, but there was still a fair amount on the floor to be cleaned up.

Paul handed Mike a damp rag with which to wipe his face, and then placed a glass of water in front of him. “Drink slowly, kid,” Paul instructed before he called out for Charlie to come down.

Charlie paused when she entered the kitchen, taking in the puddle of sick and her wrecked roommate. Mike was the newest to the house, but still, it had been five months and he’d never done anything like this. The kid was as straight-laced as they came, but what he’d just done made him seem more like an out of control alcoholic than a federal agent.

“I’m sorry,” Mike choked out as he wilted in his chair, a few tears slipping from his eyes, and that was all it took for Charlie to rush into the room. She took a seat next to the rookie, brushing the fallen hairs from his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he gives in and cries. Charlie pulls him into a hug, shooting Paul a confused glance, but the other man knows nothing more than she does. When Mike eventually quiets, Charlie and Paul know they have a limited window to figure this out before Mike closes up back into himself again.

“Mike,” Paul starts, “what’s going on? This isn’t like you.” When Mike hesitates to respond, he adds, “You’re scaring us.” Charlie’s hands find their way into Mike’s hair while he chokes on an answer, and he shudders under her touch. Silent tears are still leaking down his cheeks, but the agent doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on staring at the floor.

Quiet settles over the kitchen like a thick morning fog. Mike is fidgeting with his hands, pulling on each individual finger while he struggles to find a way to explain himself. The way that Charlie plays with his hair is incredibly distracting to his drunken mind, and he kind of drifts off. He’s instantly brought back down to earth by a rough palm on his cheek, prompting him to look up into the eyes of his mentor.

“Kid,” Paul starts, a resigned concern lacing his voice, “You’ve gotta let us in. Is it Bello? Did something happen?” After a moment’s hesitation, “Is it Eddie?”

And all of a sudden Mike’s vomiting again. Just the mention of his name brings back another unwanted and painful memory, another death he has on his own hands. He remembers standing there on the pavement as red pooled from the fresh bullet wound in the Nigerian’s skull, the thick metallic scent of blood and gunfire hanging lowly in the air. He gags on the reminder, wincing as Charlie and Paul stumble back.

Embarrassment colors Mike’s cheeks when he sits back up, and he grimaces at the new pool of sick on the kitchen floor. But Charlie just shushes him as tears run down his cheeks again, and he turns to lean his head into her shoulder. Paul places a protective hand on his rookie’s back as the tears turn to sobs, feeling out of his depth for about the millionth time since Mike stepped into the kitchen.

“M’sorry,” Mike mumbles after a long moment. “For everything.” He’s slurring and his tongue feels like it’s too big for his mouth, but he goes on. “I just didn’t know what else to do. I just couldn’t, couldn’t feel anymore.”

Charlie wraps him in a tight hug as he breathes in shuddering gasps, fighting for control of his emotions. “What is it, baby? What happened?”

“I just miss my sister,” he chokes out around a sob, and his throat sounds like it’s been cut with glass. “Hate being an only child.”

And there it is, the piece of the puzzle that Charlie and Paul have been missing. This isn’t just some random act of rebellion or retaliation. It’s grief. It’s anger and pain and mourning and Mike just couldn’t deal with it. Charlie tenses for a moment as the reality of the situation sets in, but she shakes off the surprise as quickly as it came. Paul just steps back and grabs a seat at the barstool adjacent to Mike’s and rests a hand on his rookie’s neck. This moment is just another reminder that they really don’t know that much about each other, that they’re all strangers masquerading as friends, as family. Paul sighs deeply. How did they miss this?

They hold Mike for what feels like forever, until the tears finally taper off into nothing more than sniffles. Mike peels himself slowly from their embrace and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, feeling only a little trace of the buzz he had earlier that afternoon. He’s exhausted, and his hands shake as he moves to stand up.

“I’ll clean this up” he murmurs, grimacing at the soreness of his throat and the leftover taste of bile in his mouth.

“No, Mikey, we’ll get this,” Charlie promises, pushing him to sit back down. “But we need to talk about what happened today first.” Mike’s shoulders sagged, but he eventually relaxed back onto the barstool.

“You need to tell us what’s going on with you, Mike,” Paul starts. “We take care of each other here, but when we don’t know what you need it makes it really hard to be there for you. And I’m sorry that we didn’t check up on you earlier, because we should have known something was up as soon as you came downstairs today, and that’s on us. But you’ve gotta help us out, kid. This, all of this, only works if we’re honest with each other.”

Mike nods slowly, not meeting either of their gazes. He’s not sure he’s ready to talk about it, but Paul’s right. So after a steadying breath, Mike starts.

“I lost my sister a year ago today, to suicide.” Mike grimaces as he feels the hands resting on his back tense, but he presses forward. “She had been going through a really hard time, and none of us did anything. I didn’t do anything. I thought it was just typical teenage angst, or some bullshit like that. But it wasn’t. And I will pay for that mistake every single day for the rest of my life.”

Charlie sucks in a long breath and lets it out slowly, pulling Mike into as tight a hug as she’s ever given, hoping to be able to offer any kind of comfort to the distraught agent. “Mike, this wasn’t your fault. And I know that you don’t believe that and that you might not ever believe it, but this was a choice that she made in a time when she could have reached out to someone and asked for help. You can’t take that weight on your shoulders, because you didn’t make that decision for her, okay?” She tilts his chin up to look directly in his eyes. “Look at me Mike, this is important. None of this was your fault, okay?”

After a short breath of hesitation, Mike lets out a soft, but firm “okay.”

“And you need to come to us when you need help, kid,” Paul takes over, “so we can deal with whatever it is together. That’s why we’re all here, because there are some things we can’t handle alone, and that extends beyond our cases. We’re here for you, for each other, so please, just talk to us when you need something. We’ll always be here.”

This time when Mike nods, he’s wiping tears from his eyes and he’s more than willing to melt into the waiting arms of his housemates. They stand there like that for an immeasurable amount of time, and Mike honestly couldn’t tell if it’s been minutes or if it’s been hours, but Paul and Charlie never waver in their embrace. It felt good to have someone to lean on.

“Alright, why don’t you head up to bed, kid?” Paul suggests once they finally pull back. Mike nods slowly, fighting a yawn, and stands from the barstool. As he stretches out his tense muscles, Charlie presents him with a water bottle and a bottle of advil.

“Drink a little water tonight, the advil is for tomorrow morning.” Mike lets out a little laugh at that, grimacing at the thought of how sick he’s going to feel.

“Thanks, Char. And,” He pauses as he turns from the kitchen, “thanks for everything you guys.” He wears a small smile as he pads up the steps, reassured that he’s not near as alone as he thought, and that there are people here who will take care of him.

#first fic #sickfic #kind of #graceland #angst #emeto #tw #suicide #graceland tv #mike warren #fanfic #fanfiction #god this is literally one million tags #no one will read this

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