#excessive forcr 1993

[terrence-silver]

❝  i think about anything happening to you and i— i just.  i fucking lose it.  ❞ for Terry McCain? ❤️

---

-"This is a big shift. From a Chicago Detective to a country boy out on a farm."-

You remark, not unaffectionately, but perhaps curiously, staring out the rustic, wooden window overlooking the vast grassy backyard of Terry's familial farmstead that a lay a couple of hours worth a drive away from the outskirts of the city, nestled in the bosom of the mellow Illinois countryside, appearing almost Rockwellian in it's style; like a big, traditional Irish family once dwelled here when Terry was a boy and like nothing has been significantly changed or touched since, everything exactly the way it was left, maybe years and years ago. Lace curtains on, old fences outdoors that embraced the entire estate from all sides and a remote road that disappeared and blended into the horizon, like a straight line. He brought you here when the street violence against his colleagues at the police station got progressively worse. Convinced you you'd be safe here. Protected. Out of sight, at least, for a while, until all the dust settled down. It is not that you were ungrateful. It was beautiful here. Very peaceful. A part of Terry himself, in a sense. A big contrast, though. One you weren't exactly certain you consented to. But, he told you he didn't require you to agree with it. He just wanted you to be okay. Alive. That was all he needed. -"Yeah?"- You hear his voice, questioning, an act only followed by his hands on your shoulders, turning you away from the window to look at him. -"That's the whole point."- He reaffirms, seeming entirely honest and blunt, only to grow instantly heated, brimming with concern.

The topic of your safety always tended to agitate Terry.

-"It's dangerous out there. All that traffic and all those streets and alleys and me never knowing ---"-

He starts, only to halt just as abruptly in his tracks, seeming exasperated with stress, shaking his head, staring you down as he mustered the will to continue. This wasn't the first time you two had this conversation. -"Never knowing what the fuck can happen to you the minute I'm not looking."- He adds, continuing finally, his fingers caressing your cheek soothingly, his entire hand so big it nearly overwhelms your whole face with ease. -"I think about anything happening to you and I— I just....I fucking lose it, okay?"- He reassures and you didn't want to seem ungrateful or overly argumentative just for the sake of being argumentative. You understood just why Terry was doing this. You weren't stupid. Gang retaliation was no joke and he's lost more colleagues and acquittances than he could account for, fearing that you were only fair game too. If the Mob was willing to take out other Officers and Detectives, what was to prevent them from taking you out? An ordinary, unarmed civilian? That was, at least, Terry's assessment of the situation. Pity settles in your gut. Whenever you questioned Terry, it almost felt like kicking an overly affectionate puppy; profoundly wrong and heartbreaking. -"Out here? There's nobody coming and nobody's gonna find you."- He explains, and in spite of attempting to be empathetic, that's exactly what you feared. Nobody coming and nobody finding you. Nobody but him. The nearest small town was forty miles away down a dirt road connecting to a highway and everything that surrounded the farm was plains and grasslands as far as the eye could see.

What if he was to take a liking to this?

Having you here?

Barricaded up until further notice?

The Mafia itself called this sort of tactical safehouse retreat in times of gang violence 'hitting the mattresses'. You saw it mentioned in The Godfather once. In Terry's vocabulary, though? It was called being smart. But, how long? How long would it last, you wondered?

-"Yeah, but, Terry, you can't keep me here by force for my own safety. I get that you're worried. I understand, but still, we can't just allow ourselves to be too afraid to live. It's not healthy --- you can't do this."-

You try to reason with him, attempting to be as gentle as possible as to not have him misunderstand your intent and make it seem like you were angry with him. You weren't angry. You felt soft and absolutely touched that he went to these lengths to make sure you'd be okay, but he couldn't allow himself to succumb to paranoia and doubt every shadow at every corner and every possible thing that ever could happen potentially, pushing through every day like it was a siege. It would drive him insane. In fact, it was already driving him insane and you wanted to spare him the anxiety. Spare him the worry. The mental strain. Make him comprehend that nothing's going to happen to you, precisely because you were a nobody. Just some civilian. To no avail, it seemed. -"I can if I want to."- He interjects, straight to the point, his fingers caressing the place where your neck met your shoulder blades, quickly reaching over to the window behind you and pulling the curtains back into place, obscuring you from view. What view? There was nobody here. Maybe the occasional farmer driving a tractor down the dirt road. -"I prefer it to losing you any day."- He remarks once his attention is back on you, his embrace emanating warmth caught in the thick fabric of his sweater, the leather holster of his gun digging into your arm right before he reaches into it, opens it and pulls out a firearm, handing to you once he's done hugging you. You stare at him, mouth agape. What? He expected you to use that in case...in case of something happening? Was that even legal? He catches the hesitation on your face.

Reassuring you softly.

-"I can pull you out of jail, but I can't pull you out of the grave. You know that quote?"-