Typed fantasies inspired by Jack Davenport

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Abyss (R) (Smash) PART 4
JackDav-9
blackpoetcat_2
Title: Abyss
Author: blackpoetcat
Rating: R
Character: Derek Wills
Disclaimer: NBC owns all, just playing drama with
Summary: Everyone knows he doesn't give a shit about anything but the show. So when Derek's life capsizes, will anyone give a shit about him?

(Part 1)
(Part 2)
(Part 3)

To Derek, it seemed an eternity until one of the prison guards eventually unlocked his cell, took him by his upper arm and led him to another room. A middle-aged, almost bald man was waiting there and introduced himself:

"Parker Bellamy, attorney at law. Mr. Wills?"

"Indeed," Derek replied, pulled his arm free from the guard's tight grip and looked at the officer with open impatience. "This is confidential. Leave."

The guard didn’t answer, only smirked and shut the door behind him. When Derek heard the attorney sigh, he instantly turned on him.

"What?" he barked. "Since the first interrogation, I’ve been treated with nothing but disrespect, like any common stray! Now that I will finally get out..."

"Who says you will?" Bellamy inquired, honest amazement on his face.

Derek stopped abruptly and just stared at the attorney.

"That’s what you’re here for, are you not?" he asked and didn’t bother to hide his growing annoyance and anger. "I've already spent five hours in that bloody cell! Do you know what that feels like? Three to four steps square, a metal toilet right out in the open, and no damn privacy at all! I will never ever experience that again in my life! Do you hear me? Never!"

All those lonely hours behind bars, the despair of not knowing what happened the other night finally broke through. Derek was furious. He didn’t care any more about rules of behaviour. He felt like a cornered animal: outnumbered, outgunned by evidence he couldn’t fight properly because of his black-out, and on top of it all, reduced to utter worthlessness.

Bellamy shook his head and gestured toward one of the two stools.

"Sit. Calm down and let us try to work on a strategy for tomorrow’s hearing in front of the custodial judge, Mr. Wills. Raging and insulting guards won’t help your cause. Quite the contrary."

Tomorrow?

That was definitely not the word Derek expected to hear. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the attorney.

"What do you mean, tomorrow? I thought --"

"Custodial court has already closed for tonight, Mr. Wills," Bellamy explained. "But we will get a hearing tomorrow morning. So, as uncomfortable as you feel with your current lodgings, you must accept the fact that you will stay here for the night. There is absolutely no chance to change that, so I suggest you concentrate on what I need to know for bailing you out."

This unwelcome news was another shock for Derek; he had been certain he'd get out of jail before nightfall. He gritted his teeth and sat down; put both elbows on the small table and his head in his hands. The prospect of spending the night in that goddamn cell made him shiver to his bones.

"Okay. Now we can talk." The attorney sat opposite Derek and looked down on one of his papers. "Your DNA was found in the victim’s apartment; is that correct?"

Derek nodded slowly.

"Apparently I slept with her," he said quietly. "They found a condom and it was my sperm."

"What do you mean by 'apparently’, Mr. Wills? Do you not --"

"I was drunk. I had a black-out."

Silence. Derek didn’t look at Bellamy. He was simply tired of repeating again and again something for which he would never forgive himself -- drinking himself into such horrible oblivion that he wasn’t able to defend his honour and his freedom with the truth. At least he still had hope that his inner sense of not being guilty was true.

"I understand. So you can’t remember whether you did or did not tie and gag the girl. Is that correct, Mr. Wills?"

"Yes."

He heard Bellamy clearing his throat and finally looked up at him.

"Well, we have a problem. I know very few judges who would set a bond on a case like this. By the way, your accent..."

Derek raised his eyebrow.

"British. But what has my accent to do with a bail?" he wondered aloud.

"You are a British citizen?" Bellamy inquired and his whole stiffening up set Derek on edge again.

"Indeed; but --"

"Then I fear you have to face pre-trial custody anyway," the attorney said, and started to pack his papers back into his briefcase. "You are suspected of a capital crime and the police have clear evidence against you. You claim you can’t remember anything of the critical time, and with foreign citizenship on top of that -- every judge will evaluate the flight risk too high for setting a bail. I’m sorry, Mr. Wills. I’ll try to persuade the court tomorrow -- but I honestly don't see much chance of getting you out of jail."

***

Not only had Derek to concentrate fiercely on suppressing every nerve and instinct to refuse being locked up again without a fight -- he also found it extremely hard not to slam his fist against the only wall of his cell. He longed to hurt himself bloody, just to get rid of his fury and utter despair.

Of course it would be far better and easier if he only could rage upon or punch someone else; but he knew too well that he wouldn’t find anyone to vent his spleen at around here. Nevertheless he longed to beat that smug grin off that guard's face who gripped his upper arm unnecessarily hard on their way back to his cell. Again.

On top of that he felt absolutely unable to force down what they dared to serve for dinner a few moments later. It was a ridiculous mixture of white bread, some suspicious-looking pieces of what might have been meat in a thick, brown sauce, and a tomato that looked as fresh as if it had been imported across the Atlantic in a rowboat. Since he'd had no lunch, he knew that he should eat; but he couldn’t bring himself to try and consume any of this awful looking stuff, and stuck to water.

Derek swore to sue the entire remand custodial system of Boston, Massachusetts the moment he get out for good for treating him like any scum picked off the streets.

Of course he couldn’t find sleep, either. He tossed and turned like the night before, this time less comfortable because of that bloody cot they dared to call a ‘bed’ here, and finally quit trying. Instead, Derek marched up and down the small space between the bars until he felt burning rage building up again, so he finally decided to sit down on the floor, his back against the wall.

The tiny glimpses his memory offered of drinking with Tracy and of the photo he’d been shown haunted him whenever he closed his eyes. That was bad enough; but there were other memories, too. What had haunted him until he ran from it to drown himself in Scotch wasn’t any better, and only got stronger the more he struggled to force it away. He had never felt like this before.

But then -- there were so many firsts in his life now.

Derek didn’t know how to deal with just one of them, let alone all together. Though he slowly began to suspect that each incident was meant to be part of one big mosaic, he still couldn't bring himself to accept the current situation, or worse, the possible outcome.

He bit his lower lip and leaned his head back against the wall. So much hard work had been put into the show, not only by him. And now everything was at risk. He doubted that Karen was strong enough to shine on the way she had, once the media jumped on her and the whole cast. The only person he supposed would fight back was Eileen. Of course she would come back and take care of the situation; but Derek was still afraid that just the thought of their director being a murder suspect would be too terrifying for the team to go on the way they had.

To wonder whether any of them would even think of considering him not guilty, Derek strictly forbid himself.


Continued in Part 5

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(Deleted comment)
Yeah, poor Derek - and bad kitty. I'm afraid I've been known for that nasty streak since I started writing fanfiction ten years ago, if only in German back then. But I'm certain you don't mind a well suffering hero either ;)

Hehe - I know why your house is full of people, just left something ref. to that in my home journal :D

(Deleted comment)
You're absolutely right - only a well-suffering hero is a real good hero! And it's not only James or Derek; when I started writing such stuff back then, it was my favourite character in a German TV-show about a (fictional) Highway Police Investigation Squad who inspired me to pen down my fantasies for the first time.

But the satisfying feeling you describe I know for very much longer. I think I always liked/loved my fav's suffering...

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