This little emotional beast was brought on by, now that I think about it, a few conversations between Lastglances and I. We thought about what would happen if Albert and Christopher, from her Lacuna story (completely worth checking out, and it's helpful to read that before you read this), ever got in a huge fight, but every time we tried, it ended in smut or cuddles. So, I finally ended up writing this with a not-so-happy ending, but I guess you could consider it a happy ending, too, depending on which way you look at it.
This is also the only Lacuna-related thing, aside from in Forthwith, that I'm posting on FF. If you want more, there are links on my profile to the things I've posted on Tumblr, and you can read them there.
So, I bid you to enjoy, and to note that this isn't canon to Lacuna.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not a damn thing. I do this for fun, not profit. All creative rights to the characters and storyline belong to their original creators. No copyright infringement intended.
It's a simple mission, the type Christopher is used to. Gathering subjects for the Genesis Project is easy work, made easier with invisible sedatives in the air. He expects this one to be the same.
It's not.
His targets are a husband and wife, mid-thirties with a strong, healthy bloodline. They're perfect. The only trouble he has is getting into the apartment in which they live, but he bypasses security locks and alarms with ease.
The couple is out cold within seconds of distributing the sedative, and Christopher reaches up to press a tiny button on his headset and report his success when the door creaks open.
Christopher doesn't think about anything as he draws his gun and fires, the action drilled so deep in his head that it's instinct, has been for years. He's completely uncaring for all of two seconds before he realizes who he's shot and what he's done.
The little girl – the subjects' child - in the doorway looks stunned for a moment before she falls backwards, the clean hole in her chest hissing and smoking as it burns the flesh and bone. The gun lowers from its aimed position and Christopher swallows dryly before going over to inspect the girl – the corpse.
Looking down at her small body, Christopher can clearly see the shock in her eyes even though she's not breathing any longer. He idly notes it was a perfect shot; he can clearly see carpet through the hole just before it's saturated with blood. It's gone straight through her schoolbag.
Christopher stands there until the blood spreads outward and the tips of her blonde pigtails are dyed red, and then it's time to leave.
He calls in two soldiers to carry the adults out to the transport vehicle, and makes the decision to leave the little girl behind. Christopher has the decency to pick her body up and rest it on the couch, a gloved thumb running over the blonde hair that's just as light as Albert's and leaving a smudge of dark blood across her hairline.
Christopher steps over the spot on the carpet and forces himself to keep walking.
He pretends not to hear the screams that follow him down the stairwell around the corner as the neighbours enter the apartment.
When they reach the Warehouse, Christopher has the soldiers bring in the subjects and climbs into the car waiting for him out front. All he wants to do is get back to the penthouse, bring Albert to bed, and forget that he's just murdered a fifth grader in cold blood.
He rubs his hand over his face and regrets it immediately after, his glove still wet with blood. He jerks his gloves off in disgust and doesn't touch them again until he throws them in the waste bin in the parking garage. He wouldn't be able to wear them again, even if he wanted to.
Christopher has never been so thankful to have the private elevator stop in the parking garage; he can't imagine walking through the lobby with half of his face covered in blood would appeal to many people. He enters the codes for the penthouse and occupies his mind with simple things during the ride, things he used to love doing.
Baking in the kitchen with his mother, playing soccer in the backyard with his father, coming home from school...
The image of the little girl and her backpack flashes through his head before he can stop it, and Christopher's fist comes down on the metal railing just as the elevator doors to the penthouse open.
The lights are off when Christopher enters, something that isn't uncommon, and he's grateful that the rooms are dark. The last dim rays of the sunset aren't enough to reveal the stains on his vest as he hangs it up, but allow Christopher to find his way to the bedroom.
Albert is awake on the bed, lying on his side with the lamp on the nightstand glowing on its lowest setting. Christopher tries to get into the bathroom without Albert noticing his face, wishing he'd gone to the guest room instead, but Albert has sharp eyes.
"What happened?" He asks it so flippantly, like he doesn't really care what the answer is and is just asking to be polite. Christopher clenches his fists.
"Nothing. Everything went just fine."
"Bullshit." Albert gets off the bed slowly, still in his day clothes, Christopher realizes, and stands to his full height. "Now tell me what happened."
Christopher has to look up a few inches to meet Albert's eyes, finds himself hating the detached look in them.
"Alright," he agrees. "I went in, subdued the targets, and shot a little girl because she saw me do it. I murdered her and left her for the neighbours to find. Her blood is on my face, Albert. That's what fucking happened."
Turning on his heel, Christopher strides into the bathroom, expecting a hand to reach out and catch his arm, but there's nothing. He looks back to see Albert laying back on the bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and suddenly Christopher doesn't feel like cuddling up to Albert for comfort anymore.
He washes up quickly, ignoring the way the running water turns red as he scrubs at his face with his hand. Christopher reaches for a towel to really get the job done and remove the stubborn smudges when Albert's voice calls out to him.
"I don't want blood on my towels, Christopher. They were just washed. Just use paper towels.
With his face still dripping, bloody residue turning the water pink, Christopher stares at his lover in disbelief.
"What the hell did you just say?" When he receives no answer, Christopher yanks a towel from the rack anyway, dragging the cloth across his face harshly. It burns, but the pristine white of the towel is ruined by the blood of a little girl, and Christopher can't help but throw the towel at Albert's face. He grits his teeth when Albert deflects it, but stares him down when Albert stands again.
"Don't fucking tell me to use the paper towels again, Albert. Ever." Christopher's voice is surprisingly calm, but his words are laced with venom.
"It was your job, Christopher," he says, emotionless even in this. "You had an objective, and she just happened to be a casualty. Get over it."
Christopher feels a rush of adrenaline course through him, and before either of them know it, Albert's head is snapping to the side and Christopher's knuckles are aching.
"She's not just a casualty, Albert. She's..." Christopher takes a moment to suck in a breath to calm himself, but it doesn't work. "She's dead because you trained me to kill any and all obstacles in the way of a mission. And now I'm a murderer because of you."
Albert's hand comes up to cup his own face, eyes wide as he prods the tender flesh on his cheek. "You were a murderer a long time ago, Christopher," he says, straightening. "What makes a girl any different?"
He's ready for the next fist that flies, catching it and using Christopher's own weight against him. Albert throws him at the wall and Christopher hits it hard, dropping to the floor to catch his breath before he makes another lunge at Albert. He trips him easily and Christopher lands on his back, Albert keeping his arms pinned with his legs.
Christopher has a split second before Albert's hands are at his throat and he's staring into a completely unfamiliar face. Teeth bared, Albert's fingers constrict around Christopher's windpipe until the brunet is choking, thrashing furiously below him. Christopher breaks free and claws at his wrists-
"You always ruin everything."
-and Albert stops, clutching his head as a stabbing pain, his headache instantaneously worse, makes his vision grow blurry. He remotely notices Christopher shoving him away before the younger man gets up, doubling over as things he doesn't remember invade his senses.
"You didn't take your pill." It's not a question. Christopher holds his throat and gulps in air as Albert shakes his head once, eyes wide and left hand scrabbling across the hardwood floor. He looks weak, pathetic, and powerless.
For a moment, Christopher doesn't know what he should do. It only takes him another second to make up his mind.
He goes to the bathroom and grabs the pill bottle filled with blue capsules from the medicine cabinet. Taking a moment to grab his apartment keys, Christopher lets Albert suffer for a few more seconds before dropping the bottle in front of him, just barely in reach.
"I'm going home."
Not bothering to check if Albert can get the bottle open, or even reach it, Christopher misses the deeply hurt look on Albert's face as he leaves the room. He jerks his shoes on and forgoes a coat, stepping into the elevator without looking back.
Christopher leans against the railing and takes in a shuddering breath, and it's all he can do to keep from thinking that Albert may have been right.
Hands shaking, Christopher curses under his breath as the key in his hand refuses to unlock the door. He tries another key and gains success, throwing the door open and locking it once he's inside. The apartment is cold, the heat turned off in his absence, but Christopher can't be bothered to care.
He killed a little girl. He let Albert writhe in pain, just because of a few words. He did it willingly.
Shoes abandoned at the door, Christopher stumbles past the partitions and collapses onto his bed in a heap. His knuckles still sting from earlier, but his throat hurts the worst; by morning, Christopher is sure there would be a deep, black ring around his neck. It would remind him of a noose, he thinks, and how close to death he'd come at Albert's hands.
The thought of Albert brings tears to his eyes, and though there was no one else there, Christopher buries his face into his pillow and lets down every wall he's built to sob and weep into the soft fabric. It smells nothing of Albert, only himself, and he hates himself for wishing it did carry Albert's scent.
Christopher beats his fist against the headboard as he cries, and doesn't stop until the wood cracks and his knuckles are torn and bruised. The low temperature in the room washes over the lacerations, but it isn't what makes his blood chill.
He's a murderer, and he's in love with the man that made him one.