Atonement
Characters: Jake. Features Rachel, Cassie, Tobias, James, Tom, Ax, Marco, Jean, and Steve.
***Warnings: Semi-graphic description of self-injury (cutting). Brief mention of suicidal ideation. May be triggering. Read at your risk. Also, canon character death.****
Summary: "He is used to seeing his own blood. Just not as a human." Jake post-war angst. Spoilers for 54.
A/N: Don't own them. Don't encourage/support self-injury. Do appreciate feedback greatly.
He is used to seeing his own blood. Just not as a human.
The knife runs up his skin, leaving behind a trail of crimson. At first, he had not known how to do this, how deep to cut, how long to hold the blade. Before this, he had never drawn blood in anger and not meant to kill. But, as with morphing and murder, he had, eventually, learned exactly what he needed to do.
Jake is a natural at causing pain.
How many sentient beings had he killed? How many hundreds had died at his claws? How many thousands at his words?
A flash of silver.
A boy in a wheelchair, all too willing to take up his cause. Had he known that day that Jake had never intended for him to come out alive?
Slice.
A Hork-Bajir, looking at him with utter terror in its eyes, as his jaws bear down. Out of the corner of his cat eyes, Jake saws a slug making its way out of the salad shooter's ear. The fear was no lie and yet he cannot stop. So gentle, such fools.
The droplets begin to form.
A young man in a uniform, looking spry and smart even as his world is turned upside down. In another life, one with no Andalites and no Yeerks, where sci-fi had stayed in its rightful place, Jake might have been him. He would have been good soldier, maybe. Now, he was a good leader, one that was sending this boy to die.
The silver of the blade begins to turn red.
"Go shopping," he had said. "I'll be waiting for you." How could he not have seen it? How could he not have noticed, not have felt the escalation of the less and less secret war? How could he have given them away so easily? He was no leader; he was no son. No, Jake Berenson was nothing more than a fool.
The red line forms, superficial at first.
He had not fought the war for Earth or mankind or Elfangor or free will. He had fought for Tom, for the guy who had called him squirt. And for the brother who had begged "Anyone but Jake." He had fought for him. He had loved him. And then he had ordered his execution. Such was the war.
He digs deeper, willing his blood forth.
"Go." Go be tortured. Go almost die. Go loose the last of your sanity. Go. You thought I was protecting you, standing up to those bullies? Ha. If only you had known. If only I had.
The pain sears up his arm.
He would have followed me anywhere. Marco wasn't trusting, but I was his best friend. Big Jake, leader Jake. I was the type of guy you followed, the type of guy you listened to. A modern day pied piper, as I lead you and your mother to that cliff. You were supposed to be the ruthless one; had you known I was, too?
The blood starts to spread.
Prince. How many times had I told him not to call me that? How many times I had told him to? How many times had I doubted his loyalty? How many times had he saved me? How many times had I sent Elfangor's brother to die? Had it been revenge, a dark part of me wondered, against the brother who had, in that single dying wish, sent us all to our dooms?
It forms cuffs of red around his arm.
I had liked her. Liked her liked her. That's why I had offered that night to walk them home. I had wanted to be with her, wanted her to think me brave. I had wanted to protect her. I had wanted to draw her closer. Even though terror pulls you closer, it ultimately pushes you away. I had liked her; if I had loved her, I would have pushed her away myself.
He pushes harder. He deserves this and so much more.
I knew what she was capable of. I used it. I used her. I didn't need her to be sane, to be human. I needed her to win the war. I needed her to do what I could never do. I needed her to die.
I can't blame her for haunting me. I can blame me. Just never enough.
Jake sits there and waits, digging the metal deeper and deeper into his skin. He wishes it would go deeper, deep enough to end it all. And then the thought comes, the same one that stops him every time.
If I died, she would kill me.
He withdraws the knife and watches the familiar bands of orange and gold form around his arm. Five minutes later, Jake Berenson sits on his bed, a perfectly healthy human boy. He has no scars.