discontinued - Smooth Criminal

Chapter 4

Watching Keith break down was painful. Witnessing emotions that Lance had felt before, managed to repress and keep under lock and key, simply because he didn't have the gall to talk to anyone.

He didn't want to them to think that he was the weak link.

It was hard, feeling like that. Lance wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not even the most hardened criminals. He hated how it had changed him, hated what it did to his mind and his body. It had been a horrible place for Lance, awful. Times like that weren't pretty. These emotions knew which insecurities to prey on, targeting the weaknesses until the victim begged for mercy.

They knew, they knew, they knew.

He wondered how it had been for Keith. No family, no friends, no one to talk to - it must have been difficult. Lance couldn't begin to imagine how hard it would've been to cope. In a sense, he admired Keith's strength and perseverance. His bravery. His beautiful, starry eyes. His resilience. He also pondered how long Keith had kept these emotions bottled up. What had they stemmed from? Had Keith always been unhappy about his situation? Lance had so many questions, maybe too many, but he kept his mouth shut, staying as silent as a snake.

Lance thought back to the times that he'd broken down. Of course, he was fortunate enough not to be in a truly awful situation like Keith, but along the way life had hit him good and hard; he'd never fully recovered from some of those incidents - they were always there at the back of his mind - a permanent reminder of his struggles and what he experienced.

It had been weeks, maybe months, since a lead had been uncovered. By this point, Lance was desperate. His movements were lackadaisical and lethargic, but he wasn't giving up on any sliver of evidence that could lead to his rival's demise. Every passing day soon blurred into one; Lance was so exhausted that he barely had any conception of what time was and the way life moved on around him, leaving him behind.

He had no time to admire it.

His sole focus was his rival. And his case.

Tap, tap, tap. Lance typed tiredly, pulling up locations for a possible raid. He wanted action. You could even go as far to say that he needed it - craved it. He yawned, watching in fascination as his tears caused the bright colours on the hazy screen to meld together, like a child's crayons abandoned aside a radiator.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Lance rubbed his eyes vigourously and sleepily as he pored over the pages of his large case file, typing on the computer at the same time, searching for some sort of link. Anything to say that he was guilty. Suddenly, Lance's eyes widened in realisation.

Tap! Tap! Tap! He typed furiously - a man on a mission. He was completely rid of all his previous fatigue. Lance was sure that if he went any slower then the lead would just... disappear, like a fish escaping the vice grip of a bear's jaws.

"Guys, guys, look! I've got something! We can get 'im this time, I can feel it! Look, I'll show you!" Lance yelled with excitement, knocking his chair to the ground as he sharply stood up and waved the case file above his head. Then, he stopped abruptly. He forlornly let the file drop to his side.

He was alone under the glare of a spotlight, a few flickering bulbs that slowly dimmed with Lance's pride. He let his gaze wander to the wide window, where the full, bright moon stood out starkly against the inky black sky. He felt that familiar, cold feeling begin to crawl up his spine, leaving him frozen, transfixed on the icy, foreboding glow of the moon. Usually that light gave comfort to Lance, but tonight it was a stark reminder and a beacon of how little he meant to his friends and colleagues.

He felt like a seventh wheel. It hurt to feel like the seventh wheel. It was a horrible wheel to be.

Lance didn't know when these insecurities, these worries, had started to blossom, when they began to fester or when they started to bother him. As soon as he felt like he didn't matter, or felt that he was worthless, those feelings would make themselves known, and he would put up his façade of cockiness and brashness. Crack stupid jokes - jokes that he didn't find in the slightest bit funny. Flirt with girls - girls that didn't remotely interest him. Claim to be someone he wasn't - someone who was bold, narcissistic and arrogant; maybe even rude. Only a few people could break though his mask and get to know the real Lance McClain, but somebody had yet to do that. Nobody in the city of New York had ever seen the genuine, sweet, funny Lance.