Stockholm Syndrome

And I won't hold you back—
Let your anger rise
And we'll fly, and we'll fall, and we'll burn
No one will recall, no one will recall;
This is the last time I'll abandon you,
And this is the last time I'll forget you
I wish I could!

It was dark, past midnight, and still the city did not sleep. It was close to Christmas time, and people were bustling in the cold air, excitement in the air for the coming new year, Christmas dates, or what have you. The sky was clear, and the streets were littered with the aftermath of an early afternoon sleet, frost and ice mulling and mixing over concrete. People wandered past the small children's park, which was tucked across the street from several shop fronts, and a pediatric care office. Occasionally, someone would turn and look at the two men who'd very obviously hopped the now-locked fence, but after one glimpse, hurried away. If they wanted to jump the gate, fine, let them.

It wasn't just the selfish nonchalance of humans keeping them safely inside of the small park, rustling about underneath bare trees and ice-coated slides; it was partly the overwhelming shock of seeing them both together with no real damage to be seen… and it was also a feeling of self-preservation. The people of Ikebukuro knew better than to worry about breaking into a playground when the two men in question were none other than Shizuo Heiwajima and Izaya Orihara. You just didn't worry about petty lawbreaking when it came to those two; you worried about your own safety and ducking in time.

"Oi, I should be asleep by now," Shizuo drawled with a flick of his wrist, a cigarette dislodging itself from its brethren into the blonde's fingers before the box was tucked back into the breast pocket of his vest, alongside periwinkle shades that it was too dark for.

"No doubt in front of the television and reruns of some old anime, snoring."

"I don't snore, louse," the blonde bristled, cigarette clamped between his teeth as his fists balled.

Izaya laughed, throwing back his head in mirth as his shoulders shook. "Good one, Shizu-chan."

Shizuo grumbled, rolling his eyes as he shook his lighter open. "Fuck—" he snapped, finding his fingers too chilled to move the switch right; he'd forgotten his gloves at his apartment when Izaya called him out.

The informant leaned forward, plucking the small silver device out of his companion's hands. "Sleeping habits aside, Shizu-chan," he chastised, pressing his thumb against the small turn wheel, small metal groves biting into his fingers as his skin slipped as he pushed down. Orange flames burst forth, burning at the end of his fingernail. "Mm, well, lean forward, then," Izaya prompted, smiling derisively at Shizuo's confused frown.

The blonde sighed a bit, and obeyed, ducking his head slightly, eyes warily watching Izaya's hands.

The brunet pressed his forehead against Shizuo's, the lighter hovering underneath their eyes, smoldering heat billowing up. Izaya lingered just long enough to light the cigarette before stepping away, pocketing Shizuo's lighter surreptitiously.

"Tch, I saw that," Shizuo scolded, used to Izaya's subtle attacks on his nicotine addiction by now. The blonde leaned forward and moved to grab back his lighter from the brunet's pocket.

"Yeah, and?" Izaya laughed, wandering just out of reach. "You have more somewhere. Deal with it."

"That's actually my last one. Hand it over, flea."

The informant plopped himself into the seat of a swing, plastic and metal creaking in the cold. He kicked his boots at the loose dirt, surveying Shizuo as he stuck one hand on his hip, holding out the other expectantly; the cigarette was loosely held between the blonde's lips, and a strange urge to stand up and kiss him rose in Izaya. He swallowed it hard, fingers curling tightly against the metal chain of the swing.

"I decided to collect them."

"You're so fucking passive aggressive," Shizuo grumped, exhaling smoke with a sigh. He strode forward, and leaned against the frame of the set, weight and strength shaking the metal and plastic structure easily.

"Of course, Shizu-chan," Izaya purred, laughing scathingly. "Eventually you'll give up, just because it would be too frustrating to continue fighting."

"Is that how this happened, then?" Shizuo shot back with a lazy smirk, eyes glinting. He reached out and ran his fingers briefly through Izaya's hair, the gentleness behind the action shaking the informant to his core.

He was not good with emotions like this. They were too impulsive. So completely different from the cool and composed calculations that he dealt with. There were no truths to emotions. They were weak and human and stripped him to his barest being. No one but Shizuo could do this to him; he drew his coat closer to him, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the winter air. "I suppose… There is a certain truth to that," Izaya murmured, rolling the words about in his mouth before uttering them. "But… a relationship built on worn patience…"

"Who said I had patience to be worn down?" Shizuo snorted, flicking a bit of ash off of the end of his smoke.

"True," Izaya snickered. He rocked back into his seat. "Shizu-chan, I'm feeling verbose with you tonight."

"Eh?" Shizuo drawled the customary rearing litany of his temper, tipping his head to the side with a leer. "You're talking shit. You're a loudmouth, always," he sneered, "If anything, you're quiet tonight. Get to the point."

Izaya rolled his eyes; once a brute, always a brute, he supposed. Just because they… had whatever it was that they had, nothing changed. Well. Superficially, nothing changed. But there was something behind the insults now. Something that wasn't there before. "Very well," he replied, "I called you out because I wanted to talk to you…" Something… terrifying.

It scared him. Just how gentle someone like Shizuo could be, even to someone like him. How deeply he still hated the blonde, even though he felt as if he could drown himself in Shizuo and still feel like he needed more. It wasn't good. It wasn't healthy. He couldn't need anyone. It was impossible. "You know, Shizu-chan… There are six billion people in the world. Six billion fucking people. Of those… there's at least one person just for you. Maybe you'll meet in a quaint, quiet coffee shop, or maybe in your favorite store… But no matter what, there's someone out there who's just for you. And they're looking for you, just like you're looking for them. …It's a little cliché, I know… but I think it's true, somehow."

The man sighed, looking out past the park's horizon, towards the bustling streets. He dug his heels into the ground briefly, then pushed off, letting himself soar forward until he could close his eyes and let inertia do the work.

Shizuo's eyes followed Izaya carefully through the arcs of the swing, mouth pressed tight in a frown. He remained silent, a little wary; the informant did not so cavalierly throw out such deep insights into his own ideals and opinions and personal utopias. He exhaled slowly, the billowing smoke curled under the streetlights into the fog of Izaya's own breath and words, then slipped into nothing as it moved towards the sky.

"…And…your point?" the blonde finally drawled while he dropped his cigarette to the ground. He ground it out with his heel against the frost-hard ground, moving around the metal skeleton of the swing set to drop himself down beside the high-arching brunet. The chains creaked under his weight, the cold links familiar and smooth in his hands. An overwhelming urge of nostalgia overcame him, and with a slight movement, took off as well.

"Well, Shizu-chan," Izaya called, voice weaving in and out of the air as they briefly passed each other; "I don't think you should stop looking."

Shizuo paused, letting himself swing in an ever slowing cycle, shoes dragging up dust into the cold air. "Why not?"

Izaya leapt then, hands and body leaving the swing as it was at its highest peak. His body curved as it was pulled back down by the force of the world, and perhaps the weight of his own soul, jacket billowing out behind him. He landed in the grass gracefully, back straightening out once more, arms held out parallel to the ground like some Olympic champion without the manic grin of completion. He held the pose for a moment as the wind kicked up, eyes closing briefly; Shizuo could tell that he was bracing himself.

He'd become accustomed to reading Izaya over the years; it started mostly as a defensive mechanism but it had slowly evolved into knowing if the informant was fighting because he was bored, tired, irritated, or just plain wanted attention. Though, at this moment, even though Shizuo could tell Izaya was steeling himself for something, he couldn't tell what. He never really had been able to understand the thoughts behind the emotions—he just knew the general moods a hand on the hip or a tip of the head to the left meant. When Izaya was the most dramatic, the slowest to divulge the information he so zealously hoarded and gave away like candy, something big was coming. Something so large that the man wanted to gauge all the reactions around him, to monitor the way the cautious interest turned to eager curiosity and then crashed around them with the most horrible of news, so coldly and calculatedly slipped amongst casual conversation to shatter lives… and hearts…

"Well…" Izaya turned, tucking his hands into his pockets. His face was unreadable, lips slightly pursed with a frown and brows drawn in what could be concentration, frustration, hesitance, anything. "You can't really say that it was exactly meeting in a coffee shop for us," he laughed, lips twitching upwards into a condescending grin.

"You can't really say we ever really dated," Shizuo shot back, feeling his temper begin to rise. He knew where this was going, and he didn't really like it, not one bit. Izaya was a master at controlling people's emotions; he treated people like playthings, and Shizuo wasn't about to become one. Because he knew. He knew.

Izaya was guilty. And Shizuo would be damned if he let the flea twist his own emotions into something of a game because of that. He wouldn't let himself become some pawn for Izaya's own self-loathing and fear. He knew better.

The informant reeled slightly, a look of pain as if he'd been hit flitting across his face for a split second. No one but Shizuo, who had spent so much time observing Izaya like Izaya observed him, would notice. "Yes. There is that too."

The blonde made a motion to reach for his breast pocket, then paused, hand falling to his lap. "So, let me get this straight… you're— So you're telling me that I should go off and find my soulmate because we didn't meet in a coffee shop—hell, I don't even like coffee—"

"You misunderstand," Izaya said quietly, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh yeah?" Shizuo snapped, "Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying what you think I'm saying, except that your simpleton mind is taking it far too literally."

The blonde heaved a sigh, looking straight at Izaya; he tried to work out what was going on in the informant's mind, but, as always, couldn't. "What are you saying?" he repeated slowly, gesturing in the air between themselves; "Say it slow."

"I was already clear. I guess a protozoan's brain functions will never rival mine," the brunet scoffed loftily, face cold.

Shizuo's eyes blazed, sending a shudder down Izaya's spine. Not good, not good. He would give out soon, give in and away, and become helpless to save himself. "That's right," Shizuo drawled. He shifted in the swing, leaning forward, elbows braced against his knees, the thick wool of his winter blazer straining slightly against his shoulders.

Izaya longed to reach out and hurt the man. Maybe the desires rising in him could be satisfied by blood, by sadism, by control. His hands shook within his coat pockets—the firm, reassuring base of his flick-blade collided against his knuckles, reminding him how easily he could just take it back in hand against the man. But Shizuo… Shizuo deserved more than that, for once.

Or maybe this was just a better way to the checkmate. Words were irreplaceable; violence had already proven to be ineffective to them and what they had. So if he could say it, with the sharpness of his blade, with the intent to destroy… they could all just move along.

He couldn't figure out what he wanted; it all swirled within him, keeping him awake, keeping him from his humans. His affair and obsession with Shizuo was all-consuming, dragging him away from his board and god, his window and his computer, into a world of tenderness and day-to-day care. Was being loved by one person really overwhelming his longing for acceptance, or was it fulfilling it? He loved his humans, and Shizuo… Well, he had never felt any love towards the man—he never quite was as predictable as the others and his affection was always… less of what Izaya wanted, and seemingly more of what he needed and never knew. Frustrating. Frightening. He didn't know what to do with this passion; there was no directing it—there was no control. He needed to control it. The way that Shizuo loved him was not enough, it couldn't be enough—it was unbridled and unruly and disorganized. It could soon burn itself out like that, without being carefully constructed to last…but would it be too late for himself by the time Shizuo's love burned itself out? Or was it already too late for him now…?

"Shizuo. We never had anything. Don't delude yourself into thinking that we're actually… you know. Together," Izaya sighed, watching Shizuo's face work through the emotions and thoughts that spilled forth from this declaration. If it were anyone but the blonde, he would take glee in the struggle on Shizuo's face—the man was surprised and angered and hurt, but he was fighting it…He was fighting against it, lips and brows twitching to steel themselves into neutrality while his eyes sharpened and dilated slightly. In any other human being, it would be joyous; it would make him soar… But Shizuo wasn't a human, he was a person, and it almost sickened Izaya to watch it.

It wasn't as if this was easy for him either—he'd grown comfortable in their newest game, a sort of languid warmth that drew him deeper into Shizuo's arms. It was the warmth of his sheets on a winter day, just perfectly comfortable while the world around him was hostile and cold. "I don't love you, I love humans. That's important to note." Izaya felt the urge to explain himself, come clean and set something straight for once, the words spilling forth and catching themselves at the very tip of his tongue, pressing against his teeth and lips. But the truth was acrid in his mouth, heavy and burning, and surely, this was enough—surely… This one taste, cool and smooth and balm to his truth-chapped heart was enough to last a lifetime if he only savored it instead of devouring it whole and lusting for more. "…I never intended for any one individual to stand out more than others."

"So I've heard," Shizuo remarked dryly. "And so… flea… what happens if I decide not to look anymore? If I decide that you're wrong? —which you are, by the way."

"Then you'll be alone," Izaya spat, "Alone like you always have been."

"Alone like you are?"

"I have my humans," the informant scoffed with an offhanded shrug, tearing his eyes away from Shizuo's gaze. It burned, just like his words, just like the truth and he couldn't bear to see it anymore. He couldn't bear this longing that it spun into being in the deepest, darkest parts of his soul. "I'm not like you."

"…you know your humans don't love you back," Shizuo said softly, voice so low that the words became wisps of fog in the winter air. They curled out and danced through the night air, rushing towards the sudden vacuum of Izaya's involuntary gasp of shock.

"I—…I hate you."

"Passion is passion," Shizuo remarked sagely, surprising Izaya with his sudden depth. "I'm not delusional, Izaya." He paused, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his vest, surveying the informant's guarded gaze and posture. "Give it," he ordered, "Complain all you want, but give it over."

Izaya pursed his lips slightly, then produced the small silver lighter from his pocket. "Shit," he grumbled. "You know I fucking hate those things."

"Yeah? There are a lot of things you hate about me," Shizuo challenged, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together before taking the lighter in hand. He pressed down and turned the catch on his own, cupping his free hand over the end of his cigarette to help it alight. He inhaled slowly as he slipped the warm metal device into his pocket with the almost-empty carton. He paused for a moment as his eyes searched Izaya's face for a moment, wondering if he'd find anything new. He didn't. The informant was as arrogant looking as ever, a grimace of anger and disgust smeared across the normally cocky face. There was something there, though, that made Izaya look small to him, fragile—maybe it was the way he sullenly shoved his hands in his pockets, or leaned back on his heels to heighten the distance between them… In any case, Shizuo wasn't subtle enough to pick up the nuances, just the bigger picture. "Look…"

The blonde sighed, pulling the cigarette from his lips, where it balanced between his fingers. "I don't know what you're thinking—about yourself, or about me. But I'm not stupid enough to think that everyone finds the person just for them. I know you're not either."

"Not everyone looks, Shizu-chan," Izaya sneered, "Hasn't that occurred to you?"

"I don't think that matters. Six billion, yeah? That's a lot. Even here, in Japan, there are too many fucking people. I can't go meeting all of them, I can't go walking up to someone and go 'Yo. Are you my soulmate?'…It's impossible."

"The impossible happens every day, you know."

"Shut up!" Shizuo made a sharp guesture across the air, cutting it apart with his flattened hand. "Shit—" He looked away, breathing harshly as he swayed back and forth, the swing jarred by his sudden movement. He put the cigarette back to his lips, taking a long drag from it before sighing, his breath filling the air with smoke and an exhausted sorrow. "What I mean is, I can't tell you if you're the one for me or not, but I don't see why that matters. We never said that it was like that. I never said that I loved you, or even that I don't hate you anymore. You… you're just afraid. Of love. Of being close to someone and having them know you or something, I don't know. I can't tell you exactly. I don't know why this is coming up now."

"No," Izaya agreed slowly, "You never do say anything, Shizu-chan."

"But listen now, flea," Shizuo said sternly, "Whatever it is I feel for you, what you're saying now… well, whatever you're trying to do to me, whatever end you're trying to achieve, I'm not going to do anything fucking drastic. I won't give you that pleasure."

"…who said I was after my own pleasure?"

"You always are."

Izaya shrugged, watching as Shizuo smoked the last remnants of his cigarette. "Yes… I do suppose I am," he said slowly, honestly. Every single compulsive cell in his body was trying to override his sense, urging him to move forward, take the jump, and let himself fall into Shizuo's arms. "….It wasn't supposed to end up this way. You weren't supposed to feel anything. It happened, and it wasn't supposed to repeat itself. But it has, and so I'm just cutting it short before it gets anymore out of hand. Passion, love, lust… well, whatever the case, I hate you and your stupid butler costume," Izaya pointed out.

"Bartender," Shizuo sighed out of habit. He tossed his cigarette aside, staring at the informant with cold eyes.

"Whatever. Either way, if I asked you to get a drink, you'd still do it," the brunet said passively, shrugging.

"Point taken." Shizuo fidgeted, irritation making him antsy; this was starting to wear on his nerves. Half-thought ideas of shutting Izaya up swam through his head, wondering what would happen if he outright rebelled…

Izaya took a step forward, holding his hands out to smooth them across Shizuo's cheeks. What would it feel like to have his hands wander, he wondered. Would it be smooth in lust, or could he keep a tight enough hold to be violent in attack? He could move his hands down slightly and just end it without the extra talk…This was too much; he shouldn't have touched, he shouldn't have even spoken—Ahhh, he was going to give in soon— "Look, you know what I mean by this. It's fun, it is, our game, but…We hate each other, Shizuo."

"Bullshit," the blonde grumped. He reached out, and with a quick jerk and grab of his hands, tugged Izaya into his lap and pushed off slightly. Unless the brunet wanted to fall, the only choice was for him to cling tightly on.

"You're not playing the game fairly!" Izaya protested loudly, wanting to turn around and punch Shizuo right in the face, but the blonde held him fast, letting them both arch into the air together. Anger and resentment boiled to the surface, but couldn't overwhelm the heady feeling of need that being pressed flat against the other man gave him. This was Shizuo, altering the play in the middle of the game, changing the rules and running with them. Shizuo wasn't supposed to be able to do that, he wasn't supposed to be able to get away with it. He was the only one who could ever do that! So why was Shizuo taking away all of his power, the control and the authority that took years to build, until he could command the city with the simple flick of a wrist and dance of fingers across keys? Why was it so damn easy for the man to do that? Frustrating. Infuriating. Painful. But still…even so…and yet….No!

"Coming from the man who doesn't even consider abiding by the rules?" Shizuo snapped, holding tightly on. It had only taken that one touch to convey to him what he could only previously speculate—one touch, and all control was broken. Fuck anything else, he had to capture Izaya in such a way that the slighter could not escape and hurt himself anymore. He held on tighter as the air rushed around them, tucking his nose against the back of Izaya's ear, feeling the informant tremble against him, weak and small in this moment. "This isn't a game, you know. It's life, and life isn't fair…" he murmured, "I think we both should understand that by now."

Izaya grimaced at the shudder running down his spine at the warmth behind him, how Shizuo's hands pressed up against him, and…. He wasn't so weak as to give in, he really wasn't. No matter how much it wore against his endurance, he wouldn't give in anymore, no matter how much chemistry and electricity they held between them. He couldn't—he wouldn't—but it would be so easy to just give up and in for once—

The swing creaked in protest, and with a groan of metal snapping from plastic, dumped them both to the hard ground. They both lay on the cold ground, staring up at the sky above them and the swing twirling aimlessly, now invariably broken above them.

"Shit—" Shizuo grunted, sighing heavily, "That wasn't on purpose."

"It never is," Izaya laughed, allowing himself to enjoy the hilarity of the situation. "You're so destructive—!" He couldn't stop laughing—it was just so damn funny. They caused chaos wherever they went, always. His back hurt now, and his chest ached, his laughter almost hysterics at the entire situation, and in that second their eyes met, and then…

Shizuo rolled himself over and braced himself above Izaya, growling, "Oi, shut up…" With barely a second thought or breath, he leaned down and kissed the slighter man.

Izaya's eyes flashed open in surprise, then closed them tightly as Shizuo pressed closer to him; hands raised in struggle, he found his body rebelling. His fingers curled into Shizuo's vest, tugging him down, mouth open to the blonde's advances. He couldn't fight anymore—there was too much inside of him longing for this, too much weakness. He didn't want to be like this, he didn't want for this to happen…He wasn't supposed to be so invariably human.

When they were like this, he was aware of every struggling breath he took, every surge of blood through his veins, drawn deep and pushed from his pumping heart; he could feel so acutely, the way their mouths meshed and skin skimmed together—the taint of nicotine and smoke in every swipe of Shizuo's tongue and burning exhale against his neck. He could ache and yearn, and feel the slight coarseness of Shizuo's hair under his fingers, the tickle against his fingers signaling that the larger had just re-dyed his hair and—and… His body trembled with it, stringing at his vocal cords and muscles, drawing a soft mewl and an arch from him; it burned and surged inside of him, this overwhelming humanity, this weakness.

He wasn't—he was above this—he was flawed, yes, but not human, anything but that—Love was terrifying. Humans were dark and dirty and pitiful and weak, but they loved. It didn't matter what happened, they still loved and they loved and they loved until they could die from it. So blind—but Izaya wasn't like that. He couldn't be like that, he couldn't restructure his entire being to give to someone. It was too old-fashioned, it was too clichéd, to change himself and how he lived because of Shizuo, because of this stupid weakness… But he wanted to. He wanted to so badly—to redo his life, his days, to place Shizuo at the center. But to sacrifice himself at that cost, it was too terrifying. What would he do, what would become of Izaya Orihara if he were to fall so deeply and indelibly in love? No. No. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He wouldn't lose this maddening game the universe, some god of irony and injustice, threw at him. He would come out the victor.

Because he wasn't human. He'd never loved anything in his life. He yearned and he wanted, but he did not love. He didn't think he could. He couldn't become weak enough to give that a chance, and he couldn't become strong enough to fail at that… But, oh…

Shizuo shifted slightly, pulling away from Izaya, who gave an impatient whine and drew him back down. He braced himself more steadily over the informant, kissing him hungrily. Their lips would meet, then draw apart, only to slide easily back together, their tongues dancing between them.

It was no secret, really, that Izaya was afraid. Shizuo could taste it in their kiss, and feel it in the way he shivered. It was to be expected, since Izaya wasn't the type to take anything past a physical level. They never spoke of love or the future, or anything but what they were doing then and there. Shizuo knew that he should have expected this day to come, but had fiercely blinded himself to it. They were both lonely, unable to be loved or to love anyone from the mundane world they lived in. Izaya had always been, and always would be, the one person who wouldn't fear him, who could parry and return his passion in any capacity… except for now.

Shizuo needed Izaya; he supposed he even loved the brunet. It was a different sort of love than in his childhood, but that was the nature of it. His life was incomplete without Izaya, whether he deigned to love or hate the informant. It was a question of existence. He could live, emptily, and continue on alone like he had before. It was something he was used to. He pulled away and stood slowly, holding out his hand to the slighter man.

Izaya looked up, dumbstruck by the sudden end of their dance, body and mouth aching for more. He sighed and stood without taking Shizuo's hand. He would be strong. He would… "Ah… don't think that changes my decision."

"As I said, Izaya," Shizuo said slowly, "I'm not delusional. I just… wonder why you're doing this."

"Because you deserve someone better than me. Someone softer, maybe kinder—"

"I'd kill them. Break them—you know—"

"No… I… I don't think you would," the informant laughed softly, almost kindly; "You've held yourself back all these years. So many times you could have killed me, and you came within meters—centimeters—and missed." Izaya shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets, "I don't love, Shizuo. I don't care. You—you care too much. So much it hurts, so much it overflows and drowns out your strength and my sanity. No, no—what this is, it isn't love. You've merely kidnapped me from my life, and it's time for you to let me return to it, else I'll do something that I'd rather not."

Shizuo was silent, which Izaya took as a good sign. He turned his back to the blonde and walked off, silent in the cold air. It was late. He was weary. An empty bed awaited him, with cold sheets and dark corners…but that was what he wanted.

"You know you can die of a broken heart, yeah?" Shizuo suddenly shot back, hands in his pockets, glaring out at Izaya.

The informant stopped, then laughed softly, looking over his shoulder. "Of course I know that, Shizu-chan."

"Then… why are you doing this?" the blonde said desperately, hands outstretched.

"Are you insinuating that you'll die of loneliness, a strong brute like you?" Izaya scoffed, leering.

Shizuo paused, then shook his head, "No. You. Why are you so intent on breaking your own heart?"

"Eh-?" Izaya froze, face contorting in a brief spasm of pain before he sighed, eyes falling down to stare at his feet, cheek tucking against the fur of his parka. "Well… I won't die of something like a broken heart, Shizu-chan. I was never whole to begin with."

"Then mend yourself."

"That's far too painful. Someone like you would never understand, Shizuo…Well. Later."

End

Author's Notes:

Ah, I wanted to write a story that didn't have any context. No backstory, no epilogue, just what was happening then and there. These two live very much in the moment, so I think it's okay to not have context every now and again. I think the story wandered quite a bit from what I wanted it to be, but hopefully the effect is the same. I have a cold right now, and so my editing's a little... blah. So, just... sort of consider it unbeta'd and forgive any mistakes you find?

Mmm, the song and title come from the song "Stockholm Syndrome" by Muse. Kudos if you can catch the other song reference in the story itself. Thanks for reading!