::/Nothing Left To Say/::
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A/N:
WARNING: This story is Rocky-centric!
WARNING: It also features Nakul son of Pradyuman!
WARNING: This story explores the background and inner character of a notorious CID villain!
WARNING: This story features the male lead having (SECRET) romantic feelings for another man's girlfriend (I don't need to say who)!
WARNING: This is a typically Riptide angsty story!
*smiles pleasantly* Thank you. Now, whoever's still here, enjoy. (Or at least try to read with an impartial and professional mind.)
Starring Naveen Andrews (with shorter and straighter hair, of course, else he'd look like Tarika's big brother xD) as Rocky. Also, I changed the plastic surgery bit to just a fancy cosmetic mask instead, simply because it is my opinion that Mr Naveen's face is too beautiful to be touched by a surgeon's scalpel. Sorry. :D
Based on the positively brilliant and heartrending song 'Nothing Left To Say' by my favourite band, Imagine Dragons. Also slightly inspired by Naveen Andrews' role as the sorcerer Jafar in the TV series Once Upon A Time In Wonderland.
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The clanging of the bell echoes in his head as though it's being rung in his skull instead of in the church tower. It's that time of the year again. The streets outside are filled with fairy lights, twinkling beautifully in the night. Everyone's happy, of course they are.
He resists the urge to kick something as he stares blankly at the wall before him. Briefly, he wonders how long he's been awake. The clock stopped working more than a week ago, and anyway, his lonely apartment is always shrouded in dark shadows that refuse to be banished even by the meagre sunlight that filters through the broken window pane during the daytime.
While everyone else in the area is flocking towards the light and warmth, surrounded by their loved ones and revelling in the festive atmosphere of joy and love and all those things that are completely beyond his reach- as they have been for so many years now- he simply sits in his little cave of wonders, trying to push away the shadows that seem to be calling to him more insistently with every year that passes like this.
His fumbling hand finds the bottle in the darkness, the glass curiously warm against his cold skin. As he knocks back a gulp, letting the warmth spread through him, the chill in his heart only seems to intensify. Lying back and clutching the bottle to his chest, he sings quietly, his whispers bouncing off the walls as though the shadows are echoing him.
"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way... oh what fun it is to live when you're dying every day..."
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He supposes it goes without saying that his concept of right and wrong has always been flawed. When he had first found out the circumstances of his birth from his dying mother and gone to find the man who had been responsible for his existence on this earth, reality had thrown icy water in his face. His fath- no, that man had been too afraid, too bloody weak to face the consequences of his past mistakes. A mistake, that was all it was- that was all he was, in that man's exact words.
A smirk that is more of disgust than mirth flits across his face as he remembers that day, remembers the boy that man had been so proud to call 'son'- a spoiled, delusional brat with no more spine than an earthworm. It had been that fateful day on which he realised that despite everything his late mother had taught him, there really was no black-and-white right and wrong in this world. As he left that place, left that man behind, he no longer knew what was right, or where the lines between right and wrong were. He still doesn't.
Maybe that's why he feels nothing now as he puts a bullet in the head of the terrified, grovelling man before him. After all, he himself was punished just for being born, so why shouldn't others be punished for things that are actually in their control?
He's seen a lot of things in the past twelve years, from age fourteen to age twenty-six, and while they've toughened him up, shaped him into the man he is now, they've never made him any wiser. No, he got all the wisdom he needed that day, he doesn't need to know anything else about why this screwed-up world works the way it does.
All he needs to know is how to survive in it, and he's got that lesson burned into his brain. As long as it's there, he'll just keep pushing on.
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The man before him is young- practically a boy, really, no older than twenty-five at most. Yet his hand is steady as it holds the gun and the glint in his eyes is cold, the eyes themselves dark and empty of all emotion. The same look he sees every time he catches sight of his own reflection.
Keeping his gun trained on the younger man, he speaks, choosing his words carefully. "Are you a cop, then?" He suspects the opposite- he knows cops, and the boy standing before him with such tension in his stance and such wary defiance in his face certainly doesn't seem like one.
For some reason, the question makes the young man's fair face flush red in anger, his eyes flaring up all of a sudden. "No, I'm not," he spits out. "That's the whole problem, isn't it. Not a cop, not on the side of the angels." He tosses his gun to the ground. "There. You can kill me if you want. It's not like anyone's gonna miss me anyway."
Whatever reply he was expecting, it isn't this. He's thrown off balance for a minute, but the genuine anguish flashing across the boy's face as he speaks is proof enough that it isn't some ruse. Inexplicably, he feels a pang in his heart, the heart he didn't even know he still had. Putting his gun back into his jacket pocket, he looks at the boy, who's looking back at him with some surprise. "What's your name, kid?"
He sees some hesitation before the boy answers. "Nakul."
"Well, Nakul." He raises his eyebrows questioningly. "You got some time to kill, or d'you have someone to kill?"
Unexpectedly, that produces a faint grin from Nakul, who shrugs as he picks up his fallen gun and tucks it away. "Nah. Not right now." He deftly swings himself up and perches on the low wall separating the compound of the disco from the street outside. "I mean, I've got a bunch of people out looking for me, but you know, they're probably not gonna find me for a while." He snorts, and there's a clear hint of bitterness in his tone. "None of them know me well enough to guess where I could be."
He frowns slightly at that as he climbs up to join Nakul. The younger man's words remind him, all too painfully, of his own life. "Who's this 'bunch of people' then? The coppers?"
"Yep." Nakul stares down at his feet. "And my dad's their boss." He exhales gustily. "He's more of their dad than mine, though. They're his perfect, golden babies. Unlike me, the black sheep of the family."
His insides clench as that man's face flashes before him, each word of Nakul's stabbing at him like a poison dart. Willing the memory away, he glances sideways at the boy, pulling a small flask from his back pocket. "You want a drink, kid?"
"No thanks." Nakul waves his hand in decline of the offer before looking at him with narrowed eyes. "And I'm not a kid, by the way. How old are you, fifty?"
That makes him laugh in spite of himself. This here is a boy after his own heart. "Nah. Just turned thirty-three last month." He takes a swig from the flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "So I take it you don't exactly have an excellent relationship with your dad?"
"You don't know the half of it," mutters Nakul, vehemently kicking back at the wall with the heel of his sneaker. His shoulders slump slightly as he looks up. "What's your deal, then?"
"Me?" He lets out a derisive snort, taking another sip from the flask. "I never even had a relationship with my- with that man. To put it simply, I was the unwanted result of what was supposed to be a little harmless fun."
"Ouch." Nakul winces, looking slightly embarrassed. Perhaps this story is putting the boy's own situation into perspective. "Sorry, man." He stares moodily out into space, suddenly looking even younger as his hair flutters down into his eyes. "Now I feel like a whiny brat."
"You're not." He doesn't know why, but the words come out more firmly than he intended. Something about the younger man's story makes him empathise- perhaps because of the unshakeable feeling of finally having found a kindred spirit in this wide, hostile world. "Just because my problems may be bigger, it doesn't make yours any smaller."
"I guess." With a faint smile, Nakul hops down from the wall. "I should probably get going then. Dad and his litter of puppies will be sniffing for my blood and I don't want to be here when they reach."
"Need somewhere to lie low?" he asks, dropping down and landing elegantly on his feet in front of Nakul, who shakes his head. "No, I know a place, I'll manage." He gives a real smile this time, holding out his hand. "Nice meeting you. And thanks for not trying to kill me."
He smirks as they shake hands. "Yeah, I figured the line that's already waiting to do it is long enough, and I'm a busy man." Nakul grins and turns to leave, but both men haven't gone very far on their separate ways before Nakul's voice calls back. "How do I find you again? You know, in case I need to take you up on that place-to-hide offer?"
"Just come back here." Without breaking stride, he calls his reply back over his shoulder. "Ask for Rocky."
But he never sees the boy again.
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He does see the boy's father, though, some years later. And the men who were supposedly dearer to the old man than his own son. One of whom is sitting in front of him right now, unconscious and tied to a chair.
Oh, but it was painful having to listen to the fellow raging about how they would never get away with this, how they couldn't do anything to the CID and all the idealistic dialogues that were probably programmed into the cops' heads when they first joined. He imagines Nakul having to listen to this, having his shoulders burdened with these ideals for twenty-odd years, and a rush of blinding rage sears through his chest. The boy died knowing he would never belong with this crowd, that his father would always choose them over him, and these idiots think they can talk when in reality they don't even freaking know what it's like to live like that.
Clenching his fists, he walks away from the unconscious officer and orders his accomplices to bring the cosmetic specialist inside.
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As long as he can remember, he's always scoffed at the whole concept of love. He's never even seen it, let alone felt it. And then he walked into the forensic lab.
It doesn't hit him like a ton of bricks, doesn't wash over him like an ocean wave, doesn't even feel like a bulb going off in his head. If anything, it creeps up on him- slowly, steadily, surely, until he's lost to it. Lost to her.
The mask on his face feels a hundred times heavier whenever he's around her, just as his heart does. Having to see her, listen to her, just be in her presence with the ever-present knowledge that he can never have her is sheer torture. He's come too far now, though, and he has to see this mission through to the end. For once, he knows his way is wrong- she's too good and beautiful and perfect and pure for him to be anything but wrong- but he sticks to it. Keeps pushing on, as he always has.
Soon enough, he understands that she loves another man- the same man whose face he's wearing, no less. He wonders ruefully if this is fate's way of about-turning and biting him in the ass for all that he's done. Just freaking brilliant, Rocky. Of all the women in the world you had to go and fall for the one woman who'll never return the feelings cause she's in love with the guy whom you conveniently happen to be impersonating at the moment. Fantastic.
It just keeps building until he can no longer fight it, and ultimately, he gives up and for once, lets himself be a victim. Right up until his deception is exposed, and the senior inspector returns to reclaim his rightful place.
Right up until he takes a bullet to the heart, and from there, it's just falling.
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Everything is dark when he opens his eyes.
For a minute, he thinks he's back in his old apartment and the shadows have won at last, have come to pull him into their depths. Then he feels the cold, unfamiliarly smooth floor beneath him. The stage.
The throbbing pain in his chest brings everything flooding back to him. They must have rushed that hulk of an inspector to the hospital, leaving him here for dead. Of course they did. But this isn't the end... no, he'll be damned if he lets them win.
Bracing himself, he slowly scrambles up off the ground, clutching the bleeding wound in his chest and wincing as pain shoots through him. Ignoring it, he limps out of the auditorium, out into the cold air. On the way out, he rips the mask off his face and tosses it aside. He's not going to die as somebody else, and especially not him.
Fortunately for him, the river is just across the road. He stares down at it, wondering how he got here, and seems to see a blur of faces in the ripples. Every face he's ever known. His mother's, that m- his father's, the senior inspector's, Nakul's, hers...
It is the last face that draws him in, that gives him the last burst of strength he needs to jump. Now not even she can save him, he's drowning in the waters, not only of the river but of his dark, tortured soul.
Until finally, there's nothing left to say.
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A/N: Well, that's that. It's great if you liked it, it's totally okay if you didn't, just remember Christmas is all about spreading joy and love, yeah? :)
BTW, in case anyone got that impression, I was in NO WAY implying that Rocky's dad is actually ACP Pradz or something! I just added the part with Nakul because their 'daddy issues' is kind of the foundation for why they connected so easily. Also, my old mate needed someone who could actually understand him without judging, and so did Nakul... so there you have it, instant besties (who are, again, NOT related in any way). :D
That being said, merry Christmas!