AN: Post three of the crap. Sorry, and enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Wreck It Ralph. Disney does.
She didn't hear the running water as she scrubbed at her hands, bubbles from the soap covering the raw skin below.
She heard them begging instead, each one pleading for something different. To let them go, let them live, let them try to control the beast they'd become. To end it, put them down, destroy them before the creature took control. For forgiveness-whether from her or some personal god, she never knew- and for her to join them soon, hate for their commander's choice to keep them there clear in their last few moments. For their mothers, their wives, the children they'd never see again; they all begged for something, in their last few moments alive.
He's asked for her to be happy.
She didn't feel the boiling water as she stuck her hands under the tap, abused skin turning a few shades darker as she continued to scrub, cheeks pink from the steam as she leaned in close, trying to find and rid herself of every last speck.
She felt the weapon she'd used each time instead, variations of the same metal cold in her hands. There hadn't always been a blaster around to end it cleanly; some had been taken down with a knife to the throat, an old fashion gun forced between their teeth before they could finish transforming, or a rock thrown between their wing joints as they tried to flee, the resulting fall taking care of things for her.
His was the cleanest of the deaths she'd caused, a bullet between his half-formed eyes killing him almost instantly, leaving just enough time for him to beg before falling still.
And when her hands turned a dark, burnt red and her fingers refused to move, she didn't see the damage she was doing, trying to rid herself of the blood that coated her memories.
She saw them instead, saw the loved one, friends, and companions she'd had to bury, their makeshift graveyard slowly growing faster than she'd have liked. Saw the tools they'd used to hack away the bug, burning it so only the human remained to be buried. Watched herself help to push the pieces in, the green oil that passed for their blood tinted red and staining her hands before finally closing the hole.
There hadn't been much of him left, barely even a head for her to apologize to when it was all said and done. Only a dress speckled with and hands soaked in the substance she'd never get rid of.
"Tamora, honey? Are you okay?"
It wasn't that she chose not to answer; she couldn't, his voice nothing more than an unheard murmur in the back of her mind as she scrubbed and listened instead to the clamor in her head. She couldn't hear the concern in his voice, the slight hint of panic that grew with every minute she remained mute to his pleas. He, the short little handyman she'd fallen in love with, was silent under the screams of those who'd fallen by her hands…
At least until he finally unscrewed the hinges and realized what was wrong.
"Oh, Tammy."
Felix didn't question her as he turned off the water, pulling out his hammer and fixing her hands before she could protest, the skin becoming soft and pink again with a single touch of the magic metal tool. Kissing her palms and each of her knuckles, unable to see the gore that coated them, he'd just crawl into her lap and hold her, biting back his squeaks of protest when she squeezed him back too hard, despite the risk of taint. She'd hold him for as long as he'd allow, and refuse to let go a moment sooner.
She had blood on her hands, and always would; but, with him, she felt a little bit cleaner.