This actually started as part of a study for class, but the idea stuck around and fixated itself on poor Alex. There will be no fluffy bunnies and rainbows here. Later, if the muses cooperate, it will take a turn towards hurt/comfort and then, possibly, better feelings. But for now, expect self-loathing and contemplations of the darker side of humanity.
WARNINGS: DARK themes, VIOLENCE (mostly of the vague flashback variety), and, eventually, SLASH.
Also, INCOMPLETE. Just so's y'all know.
First Blood
..*^*..
A flash of yellow teeth, mocking laughter, a loud smack echoing off the walls.
Pain.
A large, gnarled hand, covered in rings of bone and gold and stolen treasures, moving closer, closer.
A glint of cold steel.
A struggle, involuntary, instinctive.
Blade in his grip, turning the tables, retaliating, return the pain, make them feel it too.
Over fast, so fast.
Done, it's done, he's done, the deed is done. The man is dead, those ugly hands twitching pointlessly in death.
His own hands are covered in blood.
[Killer.]
Soaked in it.
[Murderer.]
He's killed a man.
[Killer, murderer, no better than them.]
He's killed a man in the worst way. He made it slow, made it painful. Didn't stop, couldn't stop. Doesn't even recognize the face anymore.
[Monster.]
Alex shoots awake, breath coming short and shallow, chest heaving with effort. A sob tears its way up his throat before he can stop it, and suddenly he's collapsing into tears.
It's not a nightmare.
He wants so badly to tell himself it is, to pretend, even if just for a moment, that he's not… what he knows he is.
[Monster.]
He doesn't have that luxury. His classmates can do that – shrug off the bad dreams and frightening images and go back to sleep – and they have no idea how much it's worth.
He'd give… anything.
His breath finally comes back under control, more habit from all his training than any real will of his own, and he flops back onto sweat-soaked sheets. They disgust him.
[Almost as much as he disgusts himself.]
He throws himself off the bed violently, almost hard enough to injure, and stalks toward the closet. He can't stay here, thinking about it, looking at the trivial little things that made up his life before it.
He needs to get out.
The pair of faded jeans he jumps into are ones he's had for years, covered in holes and stains. He unthinkingly snags the largest sweatshirt… and promptly freezes.
It's Ian's.
It had been in the wash when MI-6 cleared out his things, and Jack found it a few days after the mess with Darius Sayle. It's made of a soft burgundy fabric, with gray text proclaiming the greatness of some foreign university team. He tugs it on.
It feels odd, yet strangely comforting, against his bare chest, as if Ian isn't gone, as if everything will turn out okay after all.
Then he remembers - why he's putting it on in the first place, what he's done, what Ian did to him, that there are no happy endings - and the warmth blooming in his chest flickers and dies.
He shoves his bare feet into his trainers and snags the keys and flies silently down the stairs. He leaves a short note in the kitchen, something about wanting to see the town again, a short walk, and fresh air.
[Lies. Liar.]
He disappears into the night without a sound.
So, part one. I'm not even sure what to think (other than holy crap just how messed up am I), so please, let me know how it strikes you.
I've got most of part two finished, and I'll be posting it... in the next day or two, at the latest.
As always, hope you enjoyed!
Ciao, bellas!