KimberlyFDR's Blurty

Subject:	There's A Theme Here
Time:	7:31 pm.
Mood:	frustrated.
Music:	George Strait.

I went wild and worked with the first line meme thing this afternoon. What emerged was the realization that the boys are trying to tell me something.

For

dragonsinger

He woke up in a cold sweat, his breathing labored and his body shaking. But why should tonight be any different than the last 47 nights? And each time, he was forced to live longer and longer within the dream world before being pulled out. At times, though, he wondered which was better, laying on the cold pavement as his blood poured from the three bullet holes that had ripped across his chest or laying in the cold hospital room as he watched his life be torn away with every hitched breath. He couldn't be a cop anymore, couldn't cove his partner, so why was he still alive? More importantly, why did his partner show up every single day to watch him be useless? The promises of "when you get out of here, everything will be okay" were slowly being replaced with the simple "we'll deal with whatever comes." He couldn't deal anymore, couldn't pretend that he'd ever be the man he once was. Everything that he stood for, everything that he was, had been torn away by an assassin's gun. And that meant one thing, without the job tying them together, how long before he was truely alone and his partner decided it was too much? How long before the man who was killing himself to cover the streets and his recovery decided that he had to choose? A broken down man who couldn't even walk was never going to be the victor in that scenario.

(I changed it around to fit

heuradys first line, too)

The shots were loud, even to me. Every night, the same dream, the same nightmare. And each time, I was forced to live longer and longer within the dream world before being pulled out. At times, though, I wondered which was better, laying on the cold pavement as my blood poured from the three bullet holes that had ripped across my chest or laying in the cold hospital room as I watched my life be torn away with every hitched breath. I couldn't be a cop anymore, couldn't cover my partner, so why was I still alive? More importantly, why did my partner show up every single day to watch me be useless? The promises of "when you get out of here, everything will be okay" were slowly being replaced with the simple "we'll deal with whatever comes." I couldn't deal anymore, couldn't pretend that I'd ever be the man I once was. Everything that I stood for, everything that I was, had been torn away by an assassin's gun. And that meant one thing, without the job tying us together, how long before I was truely alone and my partner decided it was too much? How long before the man who was killing himself to cover the streets and my recovery decided that he had to choose? A broken down man who couldn't even walk was never going to be the victor in that scenario.

For

lamardeuse

It's really not his fault. At least that's what he tells himself. There was no way that he could've jumped over the car and shielded his partner from the bullets. He yelled his warning, told him to get down, so what more could he have done? It was proper procedure, by the book, and nobody would say anything differently. But watching the monitor beep its steady rhythm, watching the chest methodically rise and fall despite the three bullet holes that lay beneath the white guaze, he realizes that it's all his fault. He should have protected him, that's what partners do, but when the ultimate test came he had failed miserably.

And I wrote another one, but I forgot for who;) Anyway, the result was an over-dose of post-SR pieces and the knowledge that the boys will not let me leave this story until next year (as I had planned). Hutch has issues now and I fear that if I don't do it soon, he'll get worse and do more damage than I can repair. I love being dragged blindly into these emotional breakdowns. Yay!:)

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