AN: Warnings for attempted suicide and language and discussion of mental illness. Written for a prompt on Common meme. I don't own anything you recognize.

Wes knows he has issues. Wes knows feeling the panic and intense anger rise up in his stomach whenever someone so much as touches something of his is irrational, but he can't stop it. This is crazy, he tells himself. Stop being so fucking insane, he thinks. He knows he comes across as a dick (as Travis has told him so many times); he knows he should try to relax once in a while.

It doesn't help.

He doesn't know when ending it all became a viable option in his mind, but somewhere along the way he discovered that telling himself that in a few seconds he could end it all helps. The panic ebbs, the anger fades away. It could be over.

The focus turns inward. It becomes the ultimate control. They treat you like this, but you can make it stop.

Stop.

You can make it stop.

At first, the thought only comes to his mind when he's angriest, when he's loneliest, when he's the most upset. It came up every so often right after he quit law, but with Alex…with Alex, and his newfound purpose at the LAPD it seemed to fade away into the background. But then with Alex, and the divorce, and the fighting with Travis, and the insults that seemed to veer away from being friendly and teasing and became harsh and directed, the thought of ending it all popped into his mind more and more often, until it was a constant presence – a permanent reassurance.

All this could be over.

It would be easy.

He has a gun. He knows what guns can do, but somehow he can't bring himself to do it. And so the thought remains just that – a thought, an idea…a promise.

A promise of escape.

They're fighting. They're fighting, and Wes doesn't know when it started or why it started, but they're arguing, and the words are cold and unfair and he knows that he's said things that he shouldn't have – he knows that they're probably both at fault here, but when Travis brings up Alex:

"Dude, it's no wonder she dumped you: you're a pain in the ass."

Wes loses it.

He takes a flying leap at Travis and tackles him to the ground. They wrestle, and although Wes is smaller than Travis, and Travis has muscle on him, Wes has rage (not hurt – it's rage and absolutely not hurt) on his side, and he manages to maintain the upper hand. He looks down into Travis's eyes, and all he sees is cold blue.

Wes remembers when Travis's eyes would fill with something akin to affection when he looked at Wes – when they weren't just partners, they were friends too. They're nothing together now, and Wes often wonders if maybe they really should just be split up.

You could leave. It could all be over.

And then there are hands on him, interrupting his thought, pulling, prying him off of Travis, and back into the grip of one of the bigger guys at the precinct. Wes fights against his hold, but he holds strong, and Wes feels himself deflate. He wrenches himself out of the tight grasp and stalks out the door without another word, and to his car. He drives home in silence.

Home. He knows he shouldn't be calling it home anymore, but it will always be home to him. He sees Alex's car in the driveway, but he ignores it and goes straight to the shed to get out the hose, the fertilizer… He's barely even hooked the hose up when Alex comes storming out of the house, her pretty features taken over by anger.

Everyone in Wes's life seems to be angry nowadays.

His mind feels hazy. Too much. It's too much. He can't handle much more.

His vision blurs. Tears? He can't even tell.

Through it all, however, he can hear Alex yelling at him.

Yelling. Always yelling. There's too much yelling – around him and in his brain and it's loud in his eyes and he can't take it anymore.

"Wes! You can't keep doing this! I know you haven't moved on, and maybe you don't want to, but I need to, Wes, okay? I need to move on, and I can't do it if you keep coming around to work on the fucking lawn! I know we share custody of it, but please, please, I'm begging you to leave, okay? I need you out of my life, Wes. We're divorced, and I need…"

She's still yelling, but Wes can't hear her anymore. I need you out of my life. Her words echo in his head and everything feels muddled, and his brain feels foggy and everything hurts so bad and he can't take it anymore and the thought, that ever persistent thought, is back and he can't ignore it anymore.

He leaves the hose and fertilizer where they are and numbly, silently makes his way to his car. He thinks Alex might be crying (thinks that maybe he might be crying too) but he doesn't pay attention. He gets into his car and drives straight back to his hotel, and then makes his way to the elevator. It isn't till he's looking down at the street below that he realizes that he went straight past his floor and made his way to the roof.

It's a long way down.

He feels a drop of water on his face, and thinks that maybe he really is crying, but they aren't his tears. One drop, and then another, and the clouds are showering him with water. Spring rain. Alex loved spring rain. He leans over to look over the edge, and his own tears join the downpour, falling all the way down to the ground below.

Ringing.

At first he thinks that it might be his ears ringing because why wouldn't they be, when everything is so messed up – when everything is falling apart.

When he's falling apart.

But no, he realizes when the ringing starts again, it's his phone. It seems strange to him that someone would be calling him because he isn't sure anymore whether the world around him really exists – whether he really exists – because he feels so utterly alone, but he absently presses the answer button anyway, and slowly puts it to his ear.

"Hello?" his voice is barely a murmur, but whoever is on the other end of the line must have heard it anyway because he gets a cheery, "Hello, Wes!" in response.

Dr. Ryan.

He says nothing, but it doesn't seem to deter her as she continues on just as happily after a moment of quiet.

"Wes! I'm just calling to remind you that our session has been moved this week because of the renovations at the building – they're repainting, you know – and that we'll be meeting at –"

"No," he cuts her off, suddenly, slightly surprised at himself for having spoken. "Sorry… I … no. No, I won't be making it. Sorry. Sorry Dr. Ryan." He gives a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh.

There's silence on the line for a moment, before a tentative, "Wes?" Wes still says nothing, only laughs again – an eerie, hollow sound – so Dr. Ryan continues. "Wes… are you alright?" Wes just laughs again, and if the laughter turns into harsh, wracking sobs, he doesn't admit it to himself, only hangs up the phone and goes back to looking over the edge again, inching his feet closer to the drop.

The phone rings again, and he answers it purely on impulse, putting it to his ear, but not saying anything.

"Wes," Dr. Ryan's voice is insistent, clinically calm. "Wes, please, please tell me where you are." Wes just sobs and Dr. Ryan continues, "Wes, are you at home?" At that Wes laughs again.

"Home? This was never home. It's a fucking hotel. Home… I'm never allowed home again. I'm never going home again."

"Wes…" Thunder cracks above Wes's head, loud and angry, and Dr. Ryan pauses. "Wes… did I just hear thunder? Are you outside, Wes? Please, Wes, if you're outside, go inside. Go inside, and dry off, and wait in your room and stay put, alright? And I'll come and find you. Alright, Wes?"

Wes still says nothing, and on the other end of the line, Dr. Ryan feels her heart rate jump another notch. Panic is flooding through her veins and only her training and experience are keeping her from completely falling apart. The minute she'd heard Wes's broken laughter she'd hailed a cab and rattled off the address she remembered from his file. Half of her attention was given to pleading with Wes, who still hadn't said another word, and the other half was spent sending frantic texts to Travis, telling him that something was very, very wrong with Wes.

Travis is having company over when he hears his phone go off. By the fourth buzzing, which is when he figures that he really ought to check it, he has to detach said company from his face with muffled mumbles and a gentle push before reaching to grab his phone.

Hello Travis! You weren't answering your phone, so I'd just like to remind you that our session has been moved…

Travis skips to the next line: he knows about the session already.

Travis, I just called Wes, and he wasn't himself when he answered. It was worrying, and I was wondering if you'd heard from him lately, or knew what was going on. If you're with him, please let me know.

Travis, something is very wrong. I'm going to his hotel right now, but I'm just the therapist he's forced to go to once a week; you're his partner, and if he needs help I think he might feel better getting it from you.

Travis, Wes says he's at his hotel, but I really do think he's in trouble. Your lack of response has me worried that he's hysterical because something has happened to you. Please reply.

Travis feels guilt spread throughout his gut at ignoring the first few texts, and also about the fight he'd had with Wes only hours before, and within moments is throwing on clothes and rushing out the door, leaving a spluttering "friend" in his wake.

He speeds down the road on his motorcycle, police lights flashing, cursing the fifteen minutes it still takes him to reach Wes's hotel. After parking his bike, he takes his helmet off and looks miserably up at the angry sky above. The storm had been a while coming, the skies having been angry and dark for days, and it seems to have finally broken out. But as lightening lights the air, Travis catches sight of something even more horrifying: a barely visible, but painfully familiar blond head peering out over the edge of the building.

On the roof.

Taking off at a run, he sprints into the hotel, only to find Dr. Ryan at reception, asking for Wesley Mitchell.

Grabbing her shoulder, and not even bothering to wave back at the receptionist who recognizes him, he ushers her towards the elevator.

"He's on the fucking roof."

She pales a shade and nods and they ride the elevator in strained silence.