Title: The Hunger
Author: The Fallen Sky
Rating: M
Pairing: Kick-Ass(Dave)/Hit Girl(Mindy)
Summary: It's always there, just below the surface. It's primal and powerful, not easily controlled. It transforms you, or it destroys you...sometimes both.
Warning: I plan to include some sexual content later in the story
A/N: This is a prequel to my story, Night Life, and it's told from Mindy's POV. If you haven't read Night Life, you may want to do so before reading this. There are some dark and possibly disturbing themes in this story, which is set in a very AU. The second film is ignored, but there is some continuity with the first film.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Enjoy!
There's a momentary resistance before her teeth pierce the skin, and she's rewarded with an instant flood of liquid heat against her lips. Her mouth is filled with life-sustaining nectar, the taste mildly metallic and slightly sweet against her tongue. She swallows it greedily, urged on by hunger and instinct, the delicious liquid traveling down her throat and into her stomach, filling her belly with a warmth that radiates throughout her body.
There's a hand tangled in her hair, gripping it tight, trying to pull her head back. Another hand is against her shoulder trying to push her away. There's surprising strength in those hands, and she has to fight to maintain her position, to keep her mouth attached to her meal. She bites harder, sinking her teeth in further, drawing more liquid into her mouth.
The hands trying to stop her from feeding grow steadily weaker. The grip on her hair slackens, the pressure on her shoulder eases.
She continues to feed, oblivious to everything except her hunger, her need.
The longer she drinks, the clearer her head becomes, and at some point she thinks she hears something, a voice. It's faint, and she has to struggle to focus on it, but it seems familiar.
"Mindy."
Her name and the voice calling it cuts through the fog clouding her mind. She knows that voice.
Suddenly, her mind is clear. She knows what she's doing and who she's doing it to.
Her eyes go wide, and she removes her mouth from the neck of her best friend, jerking back from him as though she's been shot.
She looks at him in horror, unable to believe what she was doing.
His eyes are wide, his face pale, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to speak, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe.
What really draws her attention is the gaping wound on his neck and the stream of blood oozing from it. She's transfixed by the sight, her eyes following the trickle of red as it flows from the wound, down his neck, along his collarbone and soaks into his shirt.
Her heart is pounding in her chest, her breath coming in short, quick pants. The only sound she hears is the constant thump-thump of her heartbeat. Her mouth is watering, her hands trembling, and all she can think about is blood, the smell, the taste, the feel of it against her lips and on her tongue, the warmth of it in her belly.
She's entranced, lost in a haze of primal desire, desperate to surrender to her craving, but something is holding her back, something isn't right, but she can't remember what that is.
"Mi-Min..."
His croaking voice cuts through the haze, and she remembers.
I bit him. I drank his blood. He's bleeding to death. He's dying...because of me.
She's horrified by the reality of the situation, but she doesn't have time to wallow in her guilt. If she doesn't act fast, he's going to die, and that's just not acceptable.
"Dave." Her voice, barely a whisper, sounds hollow in her ears. "Dave!" She exclaims, her voice filled with fear and near-panic.
She moves at near-lightening speed, her hand clamping over the wound on his neck, applying pressure in an effort to stop the bleeding. His skin feels cold and clammy against her palm, his pulse weak.
His breathing is ragged, his eyelids fluttering, and she's worried that it's too late, that he's lost too much blood, that she's killed him.
"Hold on. Stay with me." Her voice is pleading, thick with emotion.
His head lolls to the side, his body going still save for the rise and fall of his chest.
Fear and panic grip her heart, squeezing it so hard, it feels like it's stopped. Her eyes sting, her vision blurring as hot tears begin streaming down her cheeks.
Her throat is suddenly dry, her lips trembling as she struggles to find her voice. After several aborted attempts, she finally manages to eek out his name, her voice reflecting how broken she feels.
"Dave?"
He doesn't respond, but he continues breathing, and she can still feel his pulse against her palm.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't know what I was doing. I...I couldn't help myself." She sniffs and swallows the lump in her throat, her free hand lightly cupping his pale cheek.
"Please..." She fights back a sob, her tears dripping onto his face. "Please don't die. I..." She's unable to finish, unable to voice what's in her heart, too ashamed of what she's done and too afraid to be honest with him, even though this may be her last chance to tell him.
xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
He's asleep...or unconscious. She doesn't know which and doesn't care. He's alive, for now, and that's all that matters.
She managed to stop the bleeding and bandaged the wound, but he's lost a lot of blood.
Blood I drank, she thinks bitterly and feels sick to her stomach because of it.
He's white as a ghost, his skin feverishly hot and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his eyes fluttering beneath closed lids, his entire body trembling, his chest rising and falling as he takes shallow, labored breaths.
He looks like hell, but he's alive.
As guilty as she feels, she can at least take comfort in the fact that she hasn't killed him.
Not yet, at least, she thinks, her heart heavy with guilt.
She sits on the coffee table next to the couch where he's lying and adjusts the blankets she's placed over him, pulling them up to his chin, making sure he's tucked in and as comfortable as she can make him. His continued shivering tells her her efforts aren't really working, but she has to do something, has to try. After all, she can't take him to the hospital, for several very important reasons. One, because it's the middle of the day, and she can't go outside, can't get exposed to sunlight, not if she wants to continue living. Two, if he lives, he'll be just like her, which means he can't be exposed to sunlight, either, and that's exactly what would happen at the hospital, which means he'd die. And three, there's nothing anyone can do for him. Sure, a hospital might be able to give him the blood he needs to survive, but they can't stop him from changing, from becoming just like her.
Part of her thinks it would be better if he didn't survive, if he just died here on the couch. At least that way he wouldn't have to be like her, forever trapped inside during the day, never able to see the sun again or feel it's warmth against his skin. He wouldn't have to feel the ever-present craving for blood or be lost to that craving to the point where he does things beyond his control, attacks people without thought or concern.
As much as she dreads what will happen to him if he survives, she's much more afraid of what will happen to them and their friendship. Will he blame her for what happened, for making him a freak, a monster? Will he hate her and want nothing to do with her? Will he try to kill her for what she's done?
She's never admitted it to anyone, least of all him, and probably never will, but her greatest fear is losing him. She doesn't know what she'd do without him, and she doesn't want to have to find out.
Her eyes begin to fill with tears, and she blinks rapidly, trying to fight them back. She's mostly successful, only a single tear escaping each eye as she runs a hand through his unruly hair, stroking it in a reverent and comforting way.
She stares at his face, her chest heavy with emotion, her voice a meek and pleading whisper.
"Please don't hate me."
He doesn't respond, either to her plea or her gentle touch.
Sighing to herself, she removes her hand from his hair and stands on shaky legs. She gives him one last appraising look before turning and heading toward the bathroom.
Once inside, she flicks on the light and stands before the mirror. What she sees disturbs and horrifies her.
Blood.
Dave's blood.
It's everywhere. It's coagulated and dried, coating her lips, cheeks and chin. A trail of it runs down her neck and disappears under the collar of her shirt.
Her eyes drift lower, and she sees more blood on her shirt, arms and hands.
So much blood.
She feels her stomach flutter, both with hunger and revulsion. The fact that seeing Dave's blood has her wanting more blood makes her sick, and she can feel her gut roil as she heaves the undigested remnants of his blood into the sink.
Even after her stomach is empty, she continues to dry heave for several minutes until her gut settles and she's feeling only mildly queasy.
With a shaky hand, she turns on the faucet and splashes water on her face, relishing the coolness of it against her skin.
She looks at her reflection again. The blood is mostly gone from her face, but she doesn't feel clean. Her eyes look sunken, hollow and haunted, her skin ashen.
She looks broken and small, every bit the little girl she is.
A sob escapes her lips, and her body begins to tremble, not with sorrow, but with rage.
Before she knows what she's doing, her fists are pounding against the mirror, first cracking and then shattering it, large pieces of it falling into the sink and bouncing onto the floor, where they further crumble into tiny shards.
She continues to pound on the wall, punching fist-sized holes in it and causing a hazy cloud of dust to fill the air, her rage working its way out of her through her fists and her frustrated and anguished screams.
Eventually, she calms down, her throat sore and hands bleeding, her chest heaving, her heart thundering in her chest, her body still shaking with emotion.
She feels incredibly drained and weary and has to brace herself against the sink, because her legs feel like rubber.
After several deep breaths and several long minutes, she's calmed down some, her breathing slower and more controlled, her heart no longer racing, her legs feeling more stable.
The faucet is still running, so she turns it off. As she does, she notices her bloody hands.
She stops and stares at them, mesmerized by the sight of her blood coating her pale skin, fascinated by the way droplets of red pool on her fingertips and then slowly fall off, dripping onto the sink and the broken pieces of mirror.
The hunger returns unbidden, and, without realizing it, she brings a finger to her lips, her tongue easing out to taste the crimson liquid. Instantly, she's filled with energy and a primal desire to feed.
Without thinking, she sucks her finger into her mouth, her tongue laving it, cleaning every last remnant of blood from it and swallowing it greedily, the taste of it heavenly and oh-so satisfying.
It's only when she catches a glimpse of herself in one of the pieces of broken mirror that she realizes what she's doing, and she instantly removes her finger from her mouth, feeling disgusted and sick, gagging on the bile in her throat.
What the fuck is wrong with me? She thinks, horrified and frightened by what she's become.
She feels incredibly dirty and desperately wants to get clean, so she practically rips off her clothes, tossing them carelessly on the bathroom floor before walking across the broken bits of mirror, which cut into her feet, leaving bloody footprints in her wake as she makes her way to the shower.
Once inside, she turns on the hot water and steps under the spray, letting it cascade over her, washing the blood from her body. Her eyes watch as the clear water turns red and swirls around the drain before disappearing. Eventually, the water runs clear, meaning she's clean. Only...she doesn't feel clean.
Her eyes begin to sting, her vision blurring, and her legs begin to tremble, suddenly feeling incredibly weak and unable to hold her weight. Before she outright collapses, she lowers herself to the shower floor, instantly curling into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest, tucking her chin to her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs and begins to cry, her body shaking with silent sobs.
Hot water rains down upon her, and a blanket of steam envelops her, but she feels fantastically cold, like she's encased in ice, like she'll never be able to get warm again.
xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
Sometime later, she's dressed in her Hit Girl gear, ready to head out. The sun has gone down, so it's safe for her to go outside.
She's been cooped up far too long, and she needs to stretch her legs, needs to fight someone...needs to kill someone.
Violence is her therapy, her way to vent her frustrations and work through her issues, always has been and probably always will be. And, right now, she's drowning in frustration and issues.
She does one final adjustment to her wig before she walks into the main room, the room where Dave is still unconscious on the couch.
Cautiously, she walks over to the couch and kneels down next to it. Her eyes do a cursory inventory of Dave's condition. He's still pale as fuck, but he's not shivering quite as much, and his breathing isn't as labored as it was earlier.
Her heart flutters when he shifts under the blanket and groans slightly, her name falling from his lips.
She adjusts his blanket before stroking his hair with her gloved hand, her voice a low whisper.
"I'm gonna head out for a little while, but I'll be back as soon as I can. Hopefully, before you wake up."
He doesn't respond, not that she expected him to, but she's still a little disappointed.
She traces every feature of his face with her eyes, like she's committing them to memory, just in case.
Her heart speeds up as she briefly contemplates her next action. She doesn't think on it long, because she knows she'll bitch out if she does, so she just swallows the lump in her throat, leans forward and presses a kiss to his lips.
It's gentle and sweet and over almost as soon as it begins.
As she pulls back, she searches his face for some sort of reaction, but there is none. Her heart sinks a bit, but not too much, because she's riding the high of having kissed him, even if he didn't kiss her back and won't remember it later.
A small smile curves her lips as she whispers, "Sleep tight, Dave."
She strokes his hair one last time before standing up and heading to the door.
As her hand rests on the knob, she turns back toward the couch to steal one last look at Dave. Her heart clenches in her chest and tears fill her eyes as she makes a silent promise to him.
Moments later, she's out the door and on her way into the night, on the hunt. She's in need of a good therapy session and a snack. She makes a mental note to bring someone back to the safehouse for Dave to feed on, because he's gonna be hungry when he wakes up.