Detective Euan Fitzpatrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lovesguinness) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2013-12-29 09:04 pm
lovesguinness) wrote in muserevival2013-12-29 09:04 pm
Entry tags:
Word of the Day 023.
Succor
n. 1. help; relief; aid; assistance. 2. a person or thing that gives help, relief, aid, etc.
Ben & Jerry's Couch Potato and a cup of Irish Breakfast tea, strong, black and no sugar. This was what the remnants of his vices had become in the wake of the shooting. The downside of TLC and an other half that would sucker punch you for not following doctor's orders was that you had no choice but to listen and do what you were told. Doing what he was told was never very high up on his list of favourite things to do. He couldn't smoke, he couldn't drink booze, he couldn't even jerk off. So, here he was, sitting eating ice cream with fucking potato chips in it (WTF) because that was the only sort they had, and his tea of choice. Leaf tea, made in a pot, and not any of that teabag shite.
It was the really early hours of the morning, the clock waving goodbye to 2am and he was up because it was one of those nights he couldn't switch his mind off. There was still a lot going on in there. A therapy session earlier the day before had triggered a lot for him to think about. That was always the worst part about therapy. Things he was trying to just shed and move on from, they always wanted to fucking talk about. Only this time, his therapist was doctor and good friend (Irish wife, the lad had good taste), Lachlan Campbell. He was a shooting survivor himself, a father, and someone Euan felt comfortable talking to. He wasn't a psychiatrist, he simply had used his own recovery and rehabilitation time to study a ticket in psychology and was now a part-time counsellor of trauma victims.
Euan had no choice but to do the therapy thing because he was shot as a result of a case he had been working. The perp's targeted him, so this was red tape and going through he motions. It was helping on some level, but considering he had called in a friendly favour from Lachlan to come give the poor kid he plucked off the streets the day before Christmas a once over, the issue of drugs had come up and it was something Lachlan couldn't just wash over and especially not since Euan had fallen off the five year clean wagon just shortly prior to his shooting.
He dumped the spoon into the icecream tub and then picked up his mug of tea, taking a slow sip and looking at his son's drawings stuck all over the fridge door. Euan was so bloody fucking proud of his kid's talent. It still awed him, and he still thought it was the best thing ever whenever the wee lad came and gifted him with his latest piece of art. He knew he got those talents from his grandmother. Euan's mum had been an artist, and an art teacher. She would have been bursting with pride too, and there was a small ache in his heart to know she would never see it. It was a talent that had completely skipped his generation, and came out in their kids instead. Both Ciaran and Corey were artistic. The only thing Euan was artistic in was rolling a join, cutting lines, or pleasing a women. Not exactly anything worthy of hanging in The Louvre. He just wished the wee lad would talk. Euan blamed himself for a hell of a lot of things, but this was the biggest weighing on his mind now, despite Lachlan's reassurance of the opposite.
That, and the poor homeless kid upstairs battling drug addiction and pneumonia. Euan frowned a little to himself in thought. He knew deep down that even once the kid recovered from the illness, he couldn't just dump him back on the street to fall right back into the terrible cycle he was already in. He was a good kid, he just fell into a bad realm that was fucking hard to get out of once the claws were sunk deep into the soul. He was a recovering addict himself, and the cravings were something he would never be rid of. It was the cross to bear of recovery, of staying clean, of being a better person for it. The kid had admitted he did the really hard shit too. The small hit Euan had given him to stop the withdrawal hadn't lasted very long at all, which told him the kid had a tolerance level already, meaning that where he could, he would do more and more. He would be dead before he hit his 21st birthday.
But he was a good kid. Learned, well spoken, seemed to want to have some self-pride but had lost the ability to maintain it. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't let Noah return back to that vicious cycle. When he was better, Euan was going to do everything in his power to support the kid through getting clean. The difficult part was that he wasn't in much of a condition to be anyone's NA sponsor. He had been shot three times just over a month ago, he had a sick kid burdened with his own psychological problems, and his nephew was struggling too. Physically, he hadn't even been able to help the kid much, and he had to ask Keiran for help. It was fortunate that Keiran was a give you the short off his own back type of guy. He had offered help, as had Mandy, and Julie was a trooper. She seemed uncertain what any of this meant, but at the same time, she understood why Euan had to do it. If he could convince the kid to clean up and start NA, Euan was going to do whatever he could to help him. He knew how hard that was, and that it was impossible to do alone. Alone, there was no one there to hold you through the hellish part and no one worth fighting for to keep on the road through hell.
It was the why he needed to do this that had him stumped. The empathy and the understanding, sure. There was that. That went without saying for any addict. The thing that was weighing so heavily on his shoulders wasn't his own past, though, it was his future he was seeing in this lost teen. The future of his own son. No one knew what tomorrow held. He had learnt that the hard way. He was trying to so hard to do everything he could to protect Ciaran from any more pain and suffering and fear that he already lived through. Rejection, lack of love, loneliness, neglect. He had to put his tea down then because it was letting himself pause to think on things where the guilt washed over him and invited a nausea deep in his gut. If he had known the boy existed from a very young age, he liked to think he would have stepped up. The truth of the matter was, he had been in such an deep addictive state himself, he wouldn't have even cared and that knowledge made him want to vomit.
It was Ciaran that had Euan's heart already invested in this beyond his control. He hadn't meant for it to happen, but it had, and now he wasn't just going to walk away from it. If, god fucking forbid, Ciaran got to his teens and fought these same battles, whether it was because his upbringing lead to it, or he had a tendency being born of two addicts, Euan wanted to believe there would be someone there to help his son if he wasn't here to do it. He was determined not to check out on this world until his son was a grown man, but being shot and nearly killed had really spooked him into remembering how it all could be over in a heartbeat. What if his son had to grow up without him?
Just when it got to that thought, almost tearing up again like he had in therapy when they touched on this, that a small pair of socked feet padded into the kitchen quickly and there was a firm tug on the sleeve of Euan's Queen t-shirt. "Hey, hey, what are ya' doin' up, darlin'? It's late. Are ya' sick?" he asked in concern, rubbing his son's arm when he was just nailed with the big blue eyes and more urgent tugging. He didn't look sick, just like he had just woken up. There were still creases down one side of his face and blonde hair sticking out in all directions on one side and flat on the other. He had a tight only on Euan's sleeve, leaning backwards to try to get him to move. "Aye, okay, okay. What is it? I'm comin', kiddo."
He pushed the breaks off the wheelchair and before he even had a chance to move it, Ciaran was going in behind him and pushing him out of the kitchen. Christ, the kid had to be barely managing it, but he was determined. Past the living room and through the foyer to the hall that lead to the bedrooms. That was when he saw. Slumped on the floor against the wall in the middle of the hall was Noah and he was shallowly rasping for breathe. "Da', he's sick. Help him!" The voice took him by such surprise that he quickly twisted in the chair to try to see his son, almost not believing he just spoke. He was just rewarded by an awful slicing pain through his middle where the wounds were healed nicely externally, but not internally. "Fuck, shit, shit and fuck!" he cussed and then, "Crap, ya' didn't hear that, kid..." But everloving fuck, it was painful. He just had to suck it up and deal, considering Noah looked like he was about to expire right there on the floor.
Ciaran pushed him the last of the distance, and Euan carefully leaned forward to cup his hand under Noah's chin. His legs were drawn up, arms draped over them and head leaning against his elbow. His lips had a faint blueish tinge and his eyes were heavy, barely open when he looked at Euan. "Ciaran, buddy, can you go to the guest room and get the wee bottle there with the mask, like the one ya' da' had on in hospital. It's t'help Noah breathe. Can ya' do that for me?" The little boy nodded and bolted up the hall. "Hey, hey. Can ya' hear me, Noah? Can ya' tell me what happened, buddy? Ya' couldn't get ya' breath t'call for help, aye?"
There was a hint of a nod of confirmation and a rattling rasp for a short breath, all Noah could manage. "Needed the bathroom. Just... got here and... felt like I was gonna... pass out. I'm sorry..." he added in a whisper.
Euan rubbed his shoulder softly. "No apologies, aye? Ya' really ill, buddy. If we can't get ya' breathin' better on the oxygen, I'm gonna have to call the paramedics. I made ya' a promise I ain't gonna let ya' drop dead. Don't worry 'bout anythin', I'll handle it." His hand moved to Noah's back and he he started to rub small circles there to try to soothe him until Ciaran came back with the oxygen. Not being able to breathe was guaranteed to make anyone panic. "It's gonna be okay. Ya' ain't alone, buddy. Ya' ain't alone..."
Euan Fitzpatrick (Original Character)
- Noah ismaybethatsalie, Lachlan is scottishpride & follows THIS
n. 1. help; relief; aid; assistance. 2. a person or thing that gives help, relief, aid, etc.
Ben & Jerry's Couch Potato and a cup of Irish Breakfast tea, strong, black and no sugar. This was what the remnants of his vices had become in the wake of the shooting. The downside of TLC and an other half that would sucker punch you for not following doctor's orders was that you had no choice but to listen and do what you were told. Doing what he was told was never very high up on his list of favourite things to do. He couldn't smoke, he couldn't drink booze, he couldn't even jerk off. So, here he was, sitting eating ice cream with fucking potato chips in it (WTF) because that was the only sort they had, and his tea of choice. Leaf tea, made in a pot, and not any of that teabag shite.
It was the really early hours of the morning, the clock waving goodbye to 2am and he was up because it was one of those nights he couldn't switch his mind off. There was still a lot going on in there. A therapy session earlier the day before had triggered a lot for him to think about. That was always the worst part about therapy. Things he was trying to just shed and move on from, they always wanted to fucking talk about. Only this time, his therapist was doctor and good friend (Irish wife, the lad had good taste), Lachlan Campbell. He was a shooting survivor himself, a father, and someone Euan felt comfortable talking to. He wasn't a psychiatrist, he simply had used his own recovery and rehabilitation time to study a ticket in psychology and was now a part-time counsellor of trauma victims.
Euan had no choice but to do the therapy thing because he was shot as a result of a case he had been working. The perp's targeted him, so this was red tape and going through he motions. It was helping on some level, but considering he had called in a friendly favour from Lachlan to come give the poor kid he plucked off the streets the day before Christmas a once over, the issue of drugs had come up and it was something Lachlan couldn't just wash over and especially not since Euan had fallen off the five year clean wagon just shortly prior to his shooting.
He dumped the spoon into the icecream tub and then picked up his mug of tea, taking a slow sip and looking at his son's drawings stuck all over the fridge door. Euan was so bloody fucking proud of his kid's talent. It still awed him, and he still thought it was the best thing ever whenever the wee lad came and gifted him with his latest piece of art. He knew he got those talents from his grandmother. Euan's mum had been an artist, and an art teacher. She would have been bursting with pride too, and there was a small ache in his heart to know she would never see it. It was a talent that had completely skipped his generation, and came out in their kids instead. Both Ciaran and Corey were artistic. The only thing Euan was artistic in was rolling a join, cutting lines, or pleasing a women. Not exactly anything worthy of hanging in The Louvre. He just wished the wee lad would talk. Euan blamed himself for a hell of a lot of things, but this was the biggest weighing on his mind now, despite Lachlan's reassurance of the opposite.
That, and the poor homeless kid upstairs battling drug addiction and pneumonia. Euan frowned a little to himself in thought. He knew deep down that even once the kid recovered from the illness, he couldn't just dump him back on the street to fall right back into the terrible cycle he was already in. He was a good kid, he just fell into a bad realm that was fucking hard to get out of once the claws were sunk deep into the soul. He was a recovering addict himself, and the cravings were something he would never be rid of. It was the cross to bear of recovery, of staying clean, of being a better person for it. The kid had admitted he did the really hard shit too. The small hit Euan had given him to stop the withdrawal hadn't lasted very long at all, which told him the kid had a tolerance level already, meaning that where he could, he would do more and more. He would be dead before he hit his 21st birthday.
But he was a good kid. Learned, well spoken, seemed to want to have some self-pride but had lost the ability to maintain it. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't let Noah return back to that vicious cycle. When he was better, Euan was going to do everything in his power to support the kid through getting clean. The difficult part was that he wasn't in much of a condition to be anyone's NA sponsor. He had been shot three times just over a month ago, he had a sick kid burdened with his own psychological problems, and his nephew was struggling too. Physically, he hadn't even been able to help the kid much, and he had to ask Keiran for help. It was fortunate that Keiran was a give you the short off his own back type of guy. He had offered help, as had Mandy, and Julie was a trooper. She seemed uncertain what any of this meant, but at the same time, she understood why Euan had to do it. If he could convince the kid to clean up and start NA, Euan was going to do whatever he could to help him. He knew how hard that was, and that it was impossible to do alone. Alone, there was no one there to hold you through the hellish part and no one worth fighting for to keep on the road through hell.
It was the why he needed to do this that had him stumped. The empathy and the understanding, sure. There was that. That went without saying for any addict. The thing that was weighing so heavily on his shoulders wasn't his own past, though, it was his future he was seeing in this lost teen. The future of his own son. No one knew what tomorrow held. He had learnt that the hard way. He was trying to so hard to do everything he could to protect Ciaran from any more pain and suffering and fear that he already lived through. Rejection, lack of love, loneliness, neglect. He had to put his tea down then because it was letting himself pause to think on things where the guilt washed over him and invited a nausea deep in his gut. If he had known the boy existed from a very young age, he liked to think he would have stepped up. The truth of the matter was, he had been in such an deep addictive state himself, he wouldn't have even cared and that knowledge made him want to vomit.
It was Ciaran that had Euan's heart already invested in this beyond his control. He hadn't meant for it to happen, but it had, and now he wasn't just going to walk away from it. If, god fucking forbid, Ciaran got to his teens and fought these same battles, whether it was because his upbringing lead to it, or he had a tendency being born of two addicts, Euan wanted to believe there would be someone there to help his son if he wasn't here to do it. He was determined not to check out on this world until his son was a grown man, but being shot and nearly killed had really spooked him into remembering how it all could be over in a heartbeat. What if his son had to grow up without him?
Just when it got to that thought, almost tearing up again like he had in therapy when they touched on this, that a small pair of socked feet padded into the kitchen quickly and there was a firm tug on the sleeve of Euan's Queen t-shirt. "Hey, hey, what are ya' doin' up, darlin'? It's late. Are ya' sick?" he asked in concern, rubbing his son's arm when he was just nailed with the big blue eyes and more urgent tugging. He didn't look sick, just like he had just woken up. There were still creases down one side of his face and blonde hair sticking out in all directions on one side and flat on the other. He had a tight only on Euan's sleeve, leaning backwards to try to get him to move. "Aye, okay, okay. What is it? I'm comin', kiddo."
He pushed the breaks off the wheelchair and before he even had a chance to move it, Ciaran was going in behind him and pushing him out of the kitchen. Christ, the kid had to be barely managing it, but he was determined. Past the living room and through the foyer to the hall that lead to the bedrooms. That was when he saw. Slumped on the floor against the wall in the middle of the hall was Noah and he was shallowly rasping for breathe. "Da', he's sick. Help him!" The voice took him by such surprise that he quickly twisted in the chair to try to see his son, almost not believing he just spoke. He was just rewarded by an awful slicing pain through his middle where the wounds were healed nicely externally, but not internally. "Fuck, shit, shit and fuck!" he cussed and then, "Crap, ya' didn't hear that, kid..." But everloving fuck, it was painful. He just had to suck it up and deal, considering Noah looked like he was about to expire right there on the floor.
Ciaran pushed him the last of the distance, and Euan carefully leaned forward to cup his hand under Noah's chin. His legs were drawn up, arms draped over them and head leaning against his elbow. His lips had a faint blueish tinge and his eyes were heavy, barely open when he looked at Euan. "Ciaran, buddy, can you go to the guest room and get the wee bottle there with the mask, like the one ya' da' had on in hospital. It's t'help Noah breathe. Can ya' do that for me?" The little boy nodded and bolted up the hall. "Hey, hey. Can ya' hear me, Noah? Can ya' tell me what happened, buddy? Ya' couldn't get ya' breath t'call for help, aye?"
There was a hint of a nod of confirmation and a rattling rasp for a short breath, all Noah could manage. "Needed the bathroom. Just... got here and... felt like I was gonna... pass out. I'm sorry..." he added in a whisper.
Euan rubbed his shoulder softly. "No apologies, aye? Ya' really ill, buddy. If we can't get ya' breathin' better on the oxygen, I'm gonna have to call the paramedics. I made ya' a promise I ain't gonna let ya' drop dead. Don't worry 'bout anythin', I'll handle it." His hand moved to Noah's back and he he started to rub small circles there to try to soothe him until Ciaran came back with the oxygen. Not being able to breathe was guaranteed to make anyone panic. "It's gonna be okay. Ya' ain't alone, buddy. Ya' ain't alone..."
Euan Fitzpatrick (Original Character)
- Noah is
maybethatsalie, Lachlan is scottishpride & follows THIS