Chapter Text
"Guilt isn't always a rational thing… Guilt is a weight that will crush you whether you deserve it or not." - Maureen Johnson
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Hesitating as he reached the door that led into the Homicide, Steve took a deep breath before he pushed it open and reluctantly entered the bullpen. Keeping his head down, the young homicide inspector hurried across to his desk. He was acutely aware that the bullpen had fallen silent after he had entered, and everyone was watching every step that he took. He didn't have to look up to see the anger and unspoken accusations in their eyes. He had screwed up and Mike had almost paid, and still might pay the ultimate price because of what he had done.
Sitting at his own desk, Bill watched in surprise as the younger man entered the bullpen and hurried across to his desk before sitting down, not even bothering to remove the bloody and wet trench coat that he was still wearing. He had thought that Steve would still be at the hospital, waiting with Roy for a report from the doctors about Mike's condition.
He frowned in confusion as he saw Steve reach for a sheet of paper and place it into the typewriter before typing what could have only been a couple of lines before pulling the paper free and scribbling what Bill could only think was his signature at the bottom of whatever he had written.
Uncertain as to what he should say to try and reassure the obviously upset young man that what had happened had not been Steve's fault, that everyone at the scene knew that Mike's shooting would be ruled as accidental. The scene had been chaotic with their suspect shooting at anyone or anything that moved. Mike had stepped into the line of fire just as Steve had lined up the suspect and pulled the trigger. Steve had nothing to feel guilty about and he knew Mike would tell Steve the same thing when he was able to.
Bill began to rise to his feet, determined to set Steve straight and to stop the deadly spiral of guilt and self-doubt that the young inspector was clearly falling into.
Quickly rising to his own feet, Steve folded the sheet of paper and placed it back down on his desk before he reached beneath his trench coat and removed his holster and gun, placing them on top of it. Reaching into his pocket, he removed his police ID wallet and badge and placed them on the desk beside his weapon before he skirted around his desk, ignoring Bill as the older Homicide inspector called his name as he hurried out of the bullpen.
Stepping out into the corridor, Steve started towards the elevator before he stopped and stared at the closed elevator doors. He wasn't ready to pretend that he didn't hear any more soft whispers about what he had done behind his back or pretend that he didn't see any more of pity filled or the accusatory looks that he knew he would get. Word had got around the station that he had shot his partner today.
Turning, he hurried across to the door leading to the fire escape stairs. Pushing it open, he quickly stepped into the silent stairwell before he ran down the two flights of stairs to the door that led out to the parking lot. Reaching the door that led out to the parking lot, he pushed it open and trotted as fast as he could to his car, grateful that the parking lot was empty and there was no one was around to witness or to try and stop his guilt-ridden escape or see the tears that were now blurring his vision and running freely down his face.