False Advertising (Atticus, Casual)

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

There were the days when he worked, solved really good cases, and called his daughter, and those were the good days. There were the normal days, just average really, when he did some mediocre cases and maybe went out to coffee with Gregson afterwards. And then there were the bad days, and they were… bad. They were the days when he forgot what he'a accomplished in life, and his beautiful girl, and the only thing he can concentrate on is the bad. Everything.

He hates the bad days.

He hates everything on the bad days.

Today is was bad day. They'd been far and in between in the last year, but time doesn't matter - doesn't even count - when it was like  this. Everything has always been and always will be the same. It never ends, you see. He wasn't working today, and he really wished that he hadn't made that stupid promise to his brother that he'd keep his gun strictly at work from now on.

After all, the taste of metal seems appealing right now.

He's almost ready go back to work just to get it; it's a vice, a bad habit, one he kept far too long to simply break. He wouldn't put the bullets in, no, he'd keep those stashed, cartridge outside of his room to resist complete temptation; after all, he's better than then. At least, he's pretty sure he is.

Instead he went to the grocery shoppe. Staring at his wall was driving him crazy with thoughts, ones he thought he was over, but apparently wasn't. He needed food anyway, and he does have coping mechanisms: one of them was people. It was grey and drizzly out - how fitting was the mood - and Lestrade found some small pleasure in the feel of cool, small raindrops on his skin; the smell of thunder, electricity, was prevalent in the air. He liked that smell.

As he walked into the store, he can almost feel some of the manic draining into emptiness. He hates the emptiness almost as much as he hates the thoughts, but at least they're not quite as painful. He walked in a daze, tired, not quite realising that he was simply in a very rumpled v-neck and jeans that had seen better days. He ran his hand through his hair, making it messier, the habit not even registering in his head.

He picked a blue basket from a pile. Got carrots. Rice. Bagels. Yogurt. Cereal.

It's hard to decide when you can't think; when every fibre of your being is forcing you not to, and you don't even want to. So it took him nearly half an hour to get to this sixth item on his mental list of foods he needs to buy, which at this point are just random foods he's seeing and decides he might eat.

He stands so still, and then there's another person next to him. 

"Did you know?" His question is phased wearily, caring little who the man was or if he was listening; he doesn't turn to look. "That nearly forty people die every year of cereal related incidents?" He hadn't been planning on saying that. After all, it's blatant lying. But false advertising had never stopped anyone else in this country, had it.

[ATTICUS FINCH]

Atticus loved to go food shopping, it was most likely the single most mindless activity that he did all week. All the effort it took was to make a list and get everything on the list. There was no strict thinking involved or mandatory reports to file. It was just him and the basket filled with food products in front of him. He remembered a time when he wasn't always alone, his wife used to join him on these trips.

Atticus couldn't believe that she was gone, it seemed so unfair that she was taken from him, at the peak of her life. He could see her perfectly, her smile, laugh, those eyes that always made him smile. He found himself thinking of her a lot when he went shopping. He could be in an aisle and start to think ' Would she buy this brand or this brand?' He could just imagine her laughing at him as he tried to pick out the right kind of soap for the kids. It made him both happy, and sad.

The happiness that filled him was because, he could still remember her. It was one of his greatest fears after she died. That one day Scout or Jem will ask something about their mother and Atticus wouldn't be able to remember the simple things. So when he thought of such small things as her laughing at his decisions, it made his heart grow and fill with a light happiness.

But the sadness that he felt was one because, his wife was gone. He would never hold her again, or watch her hold his children. Her laugh would never be real, her image could never become 3D. Her life was stolen from her, and it would never be given back.

Atticus had this thought in his mind as he walked down the aisle in the store. His cart was filled with many different items and a list was held in his hand. He hummed a small little tune to himself as he checked off things on the list. Milk, eggs, bread, candy (against his better judgement) and chips were in his basket. Only a few things were left on the list. Fruits, vegetables and cereal.

Speaking of cereal he grabbed the two boxes that his kids had asked him to get, but he only needed to get one. He looked at the boxes , reading all the information on them carefully, but still couldn't decide. His stare pierced both boxes, as if it would confess to a crime like criminals in the court room.

"Did you know? That nearly forty people die every year of cereal related incidents?"

Atticus turned his head towards the man who had spoken to him and then carefully and slowly put the boxes back on the shelf.

"I guess my kids can live without cereal for the week"

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

It's like breathing underwater, this. It simply does not work. And there's a way to fix the not-working, just go back up, breath, in the air, but it takes effort to come up and effort causes pain and God, it just didn't stop. He didn't want to try, couldn't try if he wanted to try, and all effort is fruitless, just like it always is. And nothing is straight, it's always in curves, overlapping and confusing and people don't make sense to him, they never have, and he can't stand losing again, can't comprehend--

--"I guess my kids can live without cereal for the week."

He remembered that people, no matter how confusing and senseless, were a cure, of course they were; the man spoke and it was like a small boost up from the water, and now his forehead's in air, just not his mouth yet, or even his eyes. But just feeling some of the wind is a little bit like breathing, and the idea of breathing blooms until he thinks about the words the man next to him's just said and what he himself just said and Christ, there it is; he's broken free, he can breath again! Shallow gasps, barely anything, and he's back underwater. But a momentary reprise it better than nothing, it's re-energizing, and he can think a little bit more for a few seconds.

And he thought about what he said, and what the man said, and Jesus, what did he just mean?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that," he blurted. "It was a lie. I don't why I said that." It's not good to lie, even if it can be fun, because fun things just swirl and lying swirls downwards so quickly that you're in too deep of a whole to get out of in no time. So it's better to get out while he can still step out, while there's still only a few inches of dirt walls around him, and the water's rising slow enough that he can jump and bob a little, get quick little breaths in.

_{OOC: Sorry this is so muddled and nonsensicle and completely metaphorical.}

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[ATTICUS FINCH]

Atticus felt a little strange staring at this man who was obviously not well. He didn't look right, like a man who was struggling with life and couldn't pull out of it. He knew that look, he had once got it when his wife died. Like the world was filled with a darkness that not even an angels light could break through. The only thing that was his saving grace was his kids. Not his brother or his sister, but the two children that he had made with his wife.

They were still the thing holding him to the world.

He had a right mind to get far away from this man, as far and the superstore would let him wonder. But he couldn't just leave someone who was so desperate for help alone. What kind of man would that make him? Not one that could go home to his children and kiss them good night. No he had a moral obligation to try his hardest to help the man, even if he didn't want it.

"That's alright Sir, the saying goes that there is always truth inside a lie. I'm sure that somewhere in the world your statistics are correct." Even while saying so though Atticus grabbed two boxes and put them into his cart.

"Maybe you could come with me to the fruit section and give me some facts about the effects of apples on growth." He gave the man a warm, welcoming smile.

"And maybe while we're over there you can tell me whats caused that darkness in you?"

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"That's alright Sir, the saying goes that there is always truth inside a lie. I'm sure that somewhere in the world your statistics are correct," the man said, which was... gracious of him. Indulging Lestrade in his idiot lies. Apparently, he didn't really believe them though (good), because he grabbed two boxes of cereal after all and placed them in his cart.

"Maybe you could come with me to the fruit section and give me some facts about the effects of apples on growth," he smiled. He had a comforting smile. Lestrade still felt like he was seeing it through tempered glass, the kind that let the drops of water fall in curved lines in the shower. "And maybe while we're over there you can tell me whats caused that darkness in you?"

For the first time, Lestrade looked up, really looked up, somewhat shocked at the man's extremely frank words. His directness really was somewhat startling, seeing as people simply weren't, not like that, in general. But then, it wasn't unwelcome. Just... different.
Different.

Lestrade huffed a short, somewhat hysterical little laugh before looking back down at his hands miserably. He was always terrified of himself when he got out of one of his moods. He never knew what stupid thing he was going to do while in them, and when emotionally-charged thing he was going to do once he was out. It was like he was making up for all the blankness before.

He wondered if there was going to be one less bottle behind his bed, tonight.

"I'm - I'm nothing." Wasn't that true. "It's nothing. I just..." Miss the taste of metal? Miss having bullets at his finger tips? Miss the fell of poison liquid running through his veins and tampering with the senses. Yes. No - "Miss my daughter is all."