TITLE: I'm Gonna Make Damn Sure
SUMMARY: They say the way to really get to a girl is through her best friend...
PAIRING: Jackson/Cynthia
RATING: Hard R, because the site doesn't allow any higher and I'm physically incapable of writing anything without sex, bad language and abuse.
DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own Jackson, Cynthia, Lisa or Joe and am not worth a lawsuit. Other characters belong to me. I think I'll also go ahead and warn you that if you shouldn't be reading this (whether you're under 18 or the content is illegal in the state you live in), you'll need to click the 'X'. I'm leaving this up to your judgement. Also, noticably most of the dialogue in the part between Lisa and Joe is from the movie, so I don't own those lines.
STORY WARNING: We're talkin' violence, strong language, adult content... And all around dark themes. Seriously, dark. It brightens, to heal those who feel sickened already, because I can't stand anything more than getting into a good story and then being slapped in the face with a miserable ending. (In most circumstances, anyway.) And yes, I'm aware the information and warnings are all the same as the ones from Stockholm Syndrome. Because fics like these are the only type I'm capable of writing. I think.
ARCHIVING: Should you want to archive this on your website, please ask in an email. Not only will I be flattered, but I'll say 'yes.' As long as you ask.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm trying something a little different. While trying to work out what to do for the second chapter of Stockholm, I thought "hmm... I like Cynthia's character. How can I keep her in a story and explore it a little further?" And then I thought, well why not give her her own story? Not that I don't love Lisa, I already feel guilt. ;) Anyway though, all of the events in the movie happened except when they got off the plane, Jackson went to the hotel to make sure the damage was done--which it wasn't--and grabbed Cynthia, recognizing her voice from the air phone (I don't know how).
Chapter One: Come Join In the Last Hurrah With Open Sores and Open Jaw...
Cynthia awoke illuminated by late morning sunlight, the frosty light slipping through the cracks in the blinds and windowsill. The hot summer heat made her body perspire as her brain reached out for thoughts that currently escaped her, thoughts that could tell her where she was. She wasn't there when she fell asleep (did she fall asleep?) and one look around the room told her she would never step foot into such a place by choice.
Some vacant, run-down apartment that smelled of poverty and sweat with floral-wallpaper walls that had been torn off in various places, in some places obviously by fingernails and others by holes put in the wall.
Sprinkles of pieces of said wallpaper and cement had been lined where the wall ended and met the carpet at the floor, and only when she squinted could she distort the blur she saw long enough to realize some pieces were stained with blood, and that same faded red-brown existed on bits of the walls. She instantly turned away, sickened, to find a tall, maple-framed mirror carefully set before her, obviously for the sole purpose of watching herself rot.
The shaken redhead caught her reflection and instantly felt bile rise from the depths of her throat, choking her even through the dirty rag tied around her mouth, fastened behind her head. Still in her $400 vanilla business attire, her wrists were bound together by rope behind her back, pulled so tight that her left arm was losing circulation and slightly dislocated. She'd been forced to sit with her knees bent before her, her ankles fastened together by the same twine material. In the corner of her mouth, she could taste crusted blood, the bitter flavor making her cringe with fear and disgust.
'Okay,' she thought, shaking in all her panic. 'I was at work...'
Try as she might, Cynthia couldn't piece together much more than that. A defeated sigh erupted as tears finally found her, burning her eyes and further blurring her sight until she could see nothing but a mixture of dismal colors.
She thrashed helplessly, screaming, trying to rock herself out of her binds but succeeding in nothing but damaging her shoulder further. Her hands clenched tightly behind her and she could feel the wetness of her sweat on her palms. Her eyes burned with tears and sweat, burned just as hot as the leaves outside.
"Oh. You're awake."
Cynthia froze when she heard the icy voice. Not because it was raspy and scary, but because for the most part, she couldn't recognize it. Her head whipped around to try and get a better look than the mirror would allow her to (which was only a nice gaze at his legs), her bangs flying to hide her eyes.
Jackson laughed--a dying sound--, crossing over to where the redhead lay bound, crying, shaking and moved her hair from her eyes, getting an ultimate rush from her frightened reaction. To hear her scream, he gently moved the gag from her mouth, eyes hard.
She gasped and began to breathe harder, struggling to see more through her tears and sweat but could only squint her eyes and hope the image would eventually come to her, with no luck.
"Let me go!"
He couldn't help but smirk; the attempt to sound strong and unfazed would've worked on him, had he been a total idiot. Instead of bothering to answer though, he left, returning with a dry rag that hurt when he scraped it across her eyes and face. What good was the fear when she couldn't even see him yet?
The redhead trembled, finally able to see him, unable to think up his identity but recognizing him enough to know that he wasn't one to mess with. Still, the word slipped out of her mouth.
"Bastard!" she hissed, shaking.
"Aww," taunted Jackson, putting on a mocking pout. "I'm not that bad. I didn't kill you."
"Why didn't you?" the redhead couldn't help but ask. Of course, she was grateful, but she needed to know if that ending was what she should expect. Hell, she was already sure she was looking forward to death, just to put an end to her fright.
"I don't want you dead yet," he said dismissively, smile disappearing. "How close are you and Lisa, by the way? I want to be sure I grabbed the right one. Of course, if you aren't the little bitch who stupidly listens to everything she's told and therefore risked her own life by ruining the Keefe assassination, I'll kill you anyhow."
His eyes were black, no pupil. They could have passed for dead if they weren't flitting between hers, looking for some answer to whatever inner battles he was fighting. Dark locks, sticking every direction from his skull, suit carelessly thrown on but sliding off by the second. He was a wreck, and when he would get like that there was no stopping him.
Cynthia was at a loss for words, mouth moving up and down rhythmically but no sound coming out. Was there even an answer to that question that wouldn't get her killed? Of course, she'd just been praying for death, but when she was pushed closer towards it, she became more frightened. 'What way is better?' she asked herself. 'Dying trying to save your best friend or just dying, denying that you had anything to do with her and therefore failing as a friend? Which I'd undoubtedly go to hell for.' How many times has she actually played that first part, anyway? The super-hero who throws themselves into some abyss, trying to set things straight and not realizing how far she was going to fall until she SMACK hit the pavement? But she was half-cat, always able to land on her feet. It was what Lisa admired her for and goddamnit, she owed Lisa her life for saving her and that family from the bomb that this guy obviously had something to do with.
So refusing to answer, she looked away, eyeliner running in black, watery gashes down her cheeks, the sparkles from her mascara dimmed by the shining of her tears.
Suddenly her hair was wrapped around his hand, red rather than brunette, and it was different for him. He was knelt beside her, facing her towards the mirror so she could watch him laugh in it. Laugh at her, laugh at the situation, just laugh.
"You know, you shouldn't cry in that eyeliner," he taunted, picking up the rag and wiping the tears and eyeliner from her eyes and face. His hand cupped her chin and harshly turned her face towards his, eyes burning through hers. "All that eyeliner trails down your face... Makes you look like a whore."
"And you should probably stop talking," she told him, observing the small hole in his throat. "Before you permanently damage that hole in your neck. I'm guessing Lisa put it there," Cynthia returned with bravery as he stood up, her heartbeat picking up in tempo with the niggling thought that he might kick her.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned over and, chuckling slightly into her ear,
whispered, "Just wait until you see what I do to
her."
Lisa gasped and sharply turned her car, driving faster until the man with the gun ended up breaking the windshield, then being thrown forward through the glass of the front door. In her head, the same horrendous scenes replayed themselves: being stuck in that seat on that plane with Jackson smugly telling her what was what, being choked in that lavatory, stabbing him in the neck and then running from him through the airport and eventually escaping. An eject button would've been nice, she decided so as stepped out of the car.
Slowly approaching the man lying in a bed of broken glass with caution, the brunette observed him for signs of life and, after seeing crimson ribbons lacing out of his ears and pooling around his head, she determined he was dead.
Good.
"Lisa?"
Spinning around on her heels, relief noticeably settled through her when she caught site of her father. 'I'm not too late,' she thought, 'Jackson didn't touch him.' Noticing the phone in his hand though, she wondered if by some twist of fate Jackson was already there and Joe had seen him and called the police.
"Dad?"
"Lisa, what the hell--?" Eventually, his eyes turned to find her mouth thinned in an attempt not to cry but her emerald orbs were sparkling brightly with controlled tears.
"Did you call 911?"
Joe's eyes narrowed in mystification. "I already did. Who's--"
"I can explain that. Are you okay?" she turned away from him, in obvious distress.
Noting the sliver of fear running through her, his fingers curled lightly around her wrist, a look of concern on his face. "Am I okay?"
"I have to call the hotel," she told him as he led her to the library, a place that she remembered going to when she wanted to calm down, relax, or study, not to cower in fear in hopes that an assassin hadn't arrived and wouldn't be coming.
"Come on, come on, sit, sit..." He led her to the nearest chair (which was awkwardly placed in the center of the library), seemingly ignoring her 'okay' and managing to look confused when really, inside, he was terrified. There was undoubtedly something horrible that was supposed to go down that he didn't know about and the thought, go figure, was almost enough to send him to an early grave of his own.
"Okay. You're okay?" she asked him, desperately holding his hands as he began to back away. She wasn't sure she could let go, and she wasn't sure she could let him try.
"Yeah; I'll get the first aid kit."
Nevertheless, his hands broke their chain and he began his walk out of the room, away from her. 'Fuck the first-aid kit,' she found herself thinking.
"Okay," Lisa breathed in tune with her thoughts, picking up the phone and dialing one of her most familiar numbers. "As soon as I talk to Cynthia, I want him back in here with me until the police get here."
"The cops are on the way," Joe added before disappearing completely.
The almost-indissoluble frown she wore was on her face again, eyes drifting off to the side in an unfocused perusal of the windows as she listened to the phone ring without hope of an answer.
"Come on, Cynthia, come on, come on..." she chanted, bouncing her leg up and down, absently running the pad of her thumb over the bleeding gash on the side of her forehead.
Her heart almost beat itself out of her chest, then stopped completely for a long few seconds as the sound of picking up reached her ears. And the next thing she knew, she could feel her heart falling.
"Hi, you've reached Cynthia. I'm not here right now..."
"Shit!" The curse was punctuated by the toss of her phone across the room, her hands running through her light chestnut hair as she silently contemplated her next move. The thought that Jackson could've harmed Cynthia crossed her mind for the first time, but she quickly put it aside, deciding that he would probably come to her house first.
Joe returned with a first-aid kit a few seconds later, kneeling to find band-aids for the pouting a she quickly jumped up and wrapped her hand around his wrist.
"We've got to get to the hotel," she told him firmly.
He raised his eyebrow, keeping his voice calm although he was panicking. "Why do I have to go?"
"Dad, I promise I'll explain everything to you later; but right now, we've got to go." And with that, Lisa tugged her father towards the door, stepping over the dead gunman without care.
Tick tock, tick tock. An hour passed, then another. Her legs were numb against each other, her brain numb against the inside of her skull. She thrashed violently in her binds, succeeding in doing nothing but spilling herself backwards, and her body hit the floor hard. She didn't mind that, didn't mind anything by then; she'd already become numb.
Jackson wore a humored smirk as she fell backwards. Instead of laughing though, he crossed the room from his chair by the door, kneeling by her head and leaning forward so close that he could smell her strawberry scent when he inhaled.
"Could you please not look at me like that?" Cynthia had the nerve to ask. "It makes me nervous."
"Good. I like you that way," Jackson murmured, the words drifting past Cynthia's ear on a teasingly warm breath.
The redhead felt her jaw tense against the thoughts racing through her mind, the uncertainties, the accusations. "Who are you?" she asked, glancing up briefly to catch luminous bright blue eyes.
Dazzling blue orbs were now a stunning shade of sapphire, his hard mouth turned sexually up at one corner and his cheeks dimpled innocently. "Jackson Rippner," he finally said, studying her carefully as she tried her hardest not to look at him, drawing perverse pleasure in the hot pink flush that swept its way up her cheeks when she caught him staring.
The name didn't ring a bell. It didn't even cause a slight vibration.
"Oh," she whispered carefully, the trained gaze of her cerulean eyes roving over Jackson's sentry countenance. "Well, just so we're clear, I happen to be that little bitch who stupidly listens to everything she's told. And once Lisa finds out you have me, she'll save me."
Jackson laughed. "Leese? I doubt it. She barely managed to save herself..." he taunted, grabbing a fistful of ginger hair and yanking her upright again, watching her in the mirror. "Don't count on it," he mumbled, reading her name tag, "Cynthia."
If snakes could talk, that's how her name sounded when he said it.
"Please just let me go..." she whispered, features paling against her will.
"If things go my way, then I will," he replied nonchalantly, gently lifting the gag from her neck and placing it back in her mouth, features softening but unreadable. "So just relax. I promise everything will be okay for now."
'Oh, and since when did he turn into Mr. Concerned?' Cynthia sneered in thought.
Jackson watched her eyes slide close ('cause what else could she do?) and decided to leave her to rest, the slamming of the door and muffled whimpers the last sounds he heard before he was out in the hall.
'It's okay,' Cynthia chanted in her mind. 'Everything will be okay, everything is okay,' she sought to mentally console herself until sleep finally scooped her up, her savior. Everything was fine; Lisa was fine, she was fine, that complex stranger with the hole in his neck wasn't coming back. Everything was normal and okay.
Right.
Author's Note: Here's what I've got to say, for those who plan to read further. First off, certain aspects of the movie could be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways I used for Stockholm Syndrome and the other I'm using for this. In both ways though, it's obvious, first of all, that Jackson doesn't necessarily want to take part in killing Keefe's family--meaning if he had a choice and he was one to break promises, he probably wouldn't do it--but he's doing what he has to do because he chose to and there's no turning back. But the Lisa thing can go two ways. Either one way where there was mutual attraction to each other that they covered up (mostly hinted by the "I just might steal you" line and the end where she stares at him weirdly after Joe shoots him), or the other way where most actions, especially the ones in the lavatory scene, were just inspired because she was pissing him off when she could've simply done what he told her to do rather than trying to persuade him otherwise; he sees her as nothing more than an annoyance and she sees him as nothing more than a killer. His finger running over her scar could've been interpreted in two ways--one of which is him rubbing it not with a protective finger, but as a reminder of the incident that caused it and what will happen to her if she doesn't listen. And the other is... well, you get the hint.
The point of this ramble is that things can be interpreted in different ways and it's different for different people, and that I'm going with the way of them hating each other. So no (consensual) JLness here for those that hope otherwise, sorry. Even though it kills me, being the hardcore JL shipper I am.