A/N: I have no idea where this came from. None AT ALL. I'm sitting at my desk, dreading my physics and calculus quizzes tomorrow, and suddenly I'm writing an angsty oneshot instead of practicing torque and integration by parts. Welp. Anyway, I hope you like it!
WARNING: Angsty, contains mentions of suicidal tendencies. Watch your triggers.
Disclaimer: I'm don't own anything recognizable (which isn't much - I went overboard on pronouns). It all belongs to Anthony Horowitz or the fabulous authors I've shamelessly stolen from.
He's tired. Tired of the job, tired of the paranoia, tired of the endless looking over his shoulder. Tired of the death, the killing. It's endless, he feels – he knows. He's been in this job since the age of fourteen, and he's not getting out any time soon. It's this exhaustion, this longing to be free of his life that leads to him sitting on the roof of his house with a bottle of whiskey and a gun.
He won't do it, he knows. He doesn't have the strength, the will to take his own life and escape it all. He doesn't have the cowardice. That's what it is, cowardice – for if he died, if he left, they'd find another to take his place. Another, less trained, less sure, less jaded. Less, in all ways, and more – with more to lose, more to give up, more to mourn. And his replacement would die, and it'd be his damn fault for not having the courage to see his life through to the end. Oh, there had been others before him, he knew – an American and an Australian – had being the operative word. They'd died, as would any other, but no more would die after him. He'd be the best, the last, the only.
It's this thought, this fear that stops him from placing the weapon to his temple and blowing his brains out. The fear that his death will lead to others, to the deaths of many far more innocent than he could ever hope to be, now. But the fear doesn't stop him from wishing he were enough of a coward to end his own life and push his burden onto another's shoulders – onto someone not yet shattered by the realities of the intelligence world. It doesn't stop him from wishing that he had another reason for living.
Once, a long time ago, when he was still new to the harsh realities of his world, he'd had one – another reason for living. For being. For actively trying to come home in one piece. But that reason was long gone, now, buried beneath six feet of dirt in a grave perpetually honored with flowers. Now, he holds onto life by the thinnest of threads.
Each mission is more dangerous than the last, and he knows that there will come a time when the urge to pick up the gun will be so strong that he'll pick it up, turn off the safety, and feel the cold metal on his skin – a day when his finger wavers on the trigger for a long moment – before he'll place it back down in front of him. A day when that thinnest of threads threatens to snap and send him plummeting into the abyss for all eternity. A day when he sees the gates of hell before him, and he very nearly gives in to their irresistible call. But he will resist, and he will fight on, and that thinnest of threads will grow thicker as he pictures the faces of the innocents he is fighting for – as he imagines those that, should he die, will take his place.
The gun is locked away, the whiskey returned to the dusty cabinet from whence it came, and the exhaustion is replaced with renewed vigor, until the spiral begins again. So he holds on, holds on to that tenuous thread anchoring him to the world of the living (the world of spies, lies, deceit, and all from which he craves to be free), and prays that he is the best, the last, the only, for the day he dies is the day that all he has ever worked for is lost.
What's gotten into me? Two depressing, angsty fics in a row, and no humor! Anyway, tell me what you thought - I've never written something like this, and I'd love some constructive criticism!
hugs,
-nrynmrth