The Makings of James Moriarty
By AM_HatesCaptcha
Summary: Moriarty's origin story, written in a 5+1 format. Based on the following kinkmeme prompt: "five things that made Jim Moriarty into the monster that he is, and one thing that almost saved him."
Warnings: Ickle!Psychopath!Jim, mentions of animal abuse, child abuse, alcohol abuse, bullying, suicide & teenage masturbation.
Beta: mugenmine Livejournal.
1: Nature
At six years of age, little Jim already knew many things.
He knew the usual things a boy his age should learn, like how to ride a bicycle, how to read and write, and that you should always look both ways before crossing the road. He learned that if he smiled at little old ladies they'd give him sweets and that he could slip his little fingers into grown ups' pockets without them noticing. He learned how easy it was to tell lies.
Jim was a very bright little boy, already far more advanced in his knowledge than many of his peers. The teachers fawned over him constantly, and talked about things like advanced placements and prodigies. He smiled bashfully while his mummy cooed in pride.
And yet, try as he might, some things escaped his understanding.
He did not understand why everyone had been so upset when he cut Suzie Milligan's pigtail off with a pair of scissors. They annoyed him, and he thought she would look very funny lopsided. He didn't understand why he was forced to say he was sorry. He wasn't, even though her incessant crying afterwards aggravated him all the more.
He also didn't understand why his mother looked so appalled when he boiled the ducklings in the tub. He was curious; he only wanted to know how long it would take for the hot water to kill them.
"He just wanted to give them a bath," He overheard Mummy telling her friend one day. "He didn't notice the water was so hot."
That puzzled him. Of course he noticed the water was hot - it was steaming. He had been very careful not to touch the bath water himself. Why would he want to give the ducklings a bath, anyway?
He knew better than to correct her, though. Not after last year and the whole incident with the dog. His mother had decided it was just a phase, anyway. Jim was glad; the psychiatrist he had to visit last time was so very boring.
He still didn't understand what he did wrong. The adults always said curiosity was a good thing.
One day, as they sat in class, the teacher had read them a story. The story was about a little boy who had a secret friend. The boy never went anywhere without his friend, but he was the only one who could hear him. That friend's name was "Conscience ".
Little boys very often liked to misbehave, everyone knew that. And so, sometimes, the little boy in the story wanted to do Bad Things. Jim knew they were Bad, because the grown-ups often said so. Things like hitting other children, stealing from the shop, or lying to his parents about having brushed his teeth.
Jim sometimes watched the grown-ups do those things too, and he wondered if Bad Things became Good Things once you grow up, or if the adults liked doing them just as much as Jim did, and simply never noticed him watching.
In the story, every time the boy wanted to do something Bad, Conscience would step in and stop him:
"But why shouldn't I?" The boy would ask.
"Because it's wrong," Conscience told the boy fondly. He was always patient with the boy, even during the times he wouldn't listen to Conscience.
"How can I tell if something is wrong or not?" The boy, frustrated, finally asked.
"You have me to tell you right from wrong, and you'll always have me, no matter what. All you have to do is listen," Conscience said.
When she finished reading, the teacher put the book aside and turned to her pupils with a smile. She explained to the class what a conscience was, and how each of them had one.
"Can anyone tell me about their conscience?" She addressed the class.
Jim was perplexed when all the children, except for him, raised their hands in the air, eager to answer. They made little noises of impatience, which then turned to sighs of disappointment when the teacher chose someone else over them.
"I wanted to open my Christmas presents early," Suzie Milligan said, twirling her single pigtail around her finger. "But I knew I had to wait till Christmas morning."
"Very good, Suzie!" The teacher said with a big smile. "Who else?"
"I kicked my brother, but I felt very bad about it after." One boy with thick-rimmed glasses said. "Was that my conscience?"
Jim stopped listening. He always thought people who heard voices were crazy. Maybe Jim was the only one who was sane.
He thought back, but he couldn't remember ever hearing a voice that told him right from wrong. Sure, he knew that hurting others was Bad. He wasn't allowed to make anybody cry or bleed, although if he pretended it was an accident, usually he was forgiven.
Yet, he was still expected to say he was sorry. He didn't understand why. Why was he supposed to feel bad? How did that kind of bad feel, anyway?
Pain felt bad (and sometimes good, too, but not always), and not getting the present he wanted for his birthday – that felt bad too. Was either of them the feeling he had been missing?
Jim didn't understand. He didn't like that at all.
2: Nurture
Jim never really knew his father. His father died when he was a baby, his mother told him. She said he had loved Jim very much and wanted to be with him, but he had to leave.
Except, that wasn't quite true. He knew because Mum was a very bad liar; her eyes widened a fraction too big and her words were too calculated. Besides, he had found the divorce papers.
Jim's father wasn't dead - he was in prison. Back in Ireland, where they'd lived until Jim was eight. After The Incident, that is. Mum had made him swear to never tell a soul about it. It was for his own good, she said, he was just a little boy then, they wouldn't understand.
His mum lied a lot, but nobody else ever seemed to catch on. She lied to his grandmother when she told her she wasn't drinking anymore, and she lied to his teachers when she told them his bruises came from playing football. In the mornings, she would lie to him and tell him that she was never going to drink again.
They had to stick together; she said to him. It was the two of them against the world.
That had been the biggest lie of them all.
When Jim was ten, his mum told him that he was going to have a new daddy and a baby brother soon.
His new father was a respectable man, a productive member of society who would take care of them. He was already married, with two children of his own, but he was not happy with his wife, his mum said. He'd fallen in love with Jim's mum instead and they were going to get married very soon.
He watched his mum's belly grow, but his new father never did show up.
Curious, he went to visit the man. He was easy to find. Jim lived in a small neighbourhood, and his mother's obvious pregnancy coupled with her unmarried status was the talk of the town. All he had to do was listen to the gossip, and before long he learnt the man's full name. His address wasn't hard to find, either. He didn't live close by but that wasn't important, it was the summer, and with his mother in a constant drunken stupor she wouldn't notice him gone.
The man's name was Jermaine Moriarty. He was a wealthy man, living in the posh part of town with his wife and two children. The wife was tall and blonde and looked nothing at all like Jim's mother.
Jim waited until nightfall, and after making sure the residents were all asleep, he climbed over the fence and into the house. The front doors lock was nothing more than a single minute's delay for him.
Jim walked inside the posh house. The floor was smooth and shining, and he walked slowly so his footsteps would not make a noise. They had bookcases and shelves on every wall. The man was some sort of a scholar, Jim knew. He ran his fingers over the books, stopping when he found one that looked especially interesting. He stuffed it into his bag without hesitation.
Jim climbed the stairs, listening for any sounds that would alert him that the house residents were awake. He pressed his hand against his mouth to stifle his giggles; he was having so much fun.
He looked at the children's rooms, but they were much younger than he was and their toys did not interest him all that much. Entering the master bedroom, he stopped by the foot of the bed, and watched the sleeping couple.
They slept with their backs to one another. The woman's face was covered in a white cream and her eyes were obscured behind a sleeping mask. Jim disregarded her after a moment, and moved his attention to the man.
He had a very regal look about him. He looked dignified. He was bearded, with creases between his brows and on his forehead that made him look like he was deep in thought. Jim liked that.
Jim reached into the drawer of the bedside table, rummaging around for anything interesting. His hand touched something metallic and he smiled, his eyes gleamed with excitement.
He pulled out the handgun, turning it around in his hands. It was heavier than he expected, with an oily smell he discovered he liked. He pointed the muzzle at the sleeping man, resting it gently against his forehead. Curiosity got the better of him and he pulled the trigger after only a moment's hesitation.
The sound echoed in the room.
The sleeping man gave a loud snort, but did not wake up. Jim scowled. Why anyone would keep a gun that wasn't loaded, he wondered. Where was the fun in that? He searched for ammunition, but couldn't find any. He shoved the weapon into his bag anyway. Jim gave his once expected father one last look and left the way he came.
Hours later, he opened the front door to his own home, only to find his mother sleeping on the floor, an empty bottle next to her. Her pregnant belly rose and fell with each of her snores. He stepped over her and closed the door behind him.
3: The Folly Of His Peers
When Jim was fourteen, he and his brother were removed from their homes and placed in foster care. Someone had finally noticed their mother's drinking habit, he was told. In truth, he was just bored of their lives in the small town. It wasn't hard to fake a few tears and a look of concern toward his toddler brother. The bruises were a big help too, even though the old gal hadn't raised a hand on him in years.
Jim and his brother were taken in by children's protection services, since their grandmother was too old and too sick to take care of either of them. He was told he should be grateful that they were able to stay together, at least for now.
It wasn't long before they were placed with a family in Brighton. The family already fostered four other children besides Jim and his brother. Jim now had to share a bedroom with two other boys, but he didn't mind that much. Those children were entertaining with their tragic pasts and had a thousand different buttons that he could push.
Jim never really concerned with himself with other children his age before, but as the new boy in his school he found himself at a disadvantage. He was still too small for his age and far too skinny. His voice was still breaking on occasion. He had been a target from the moment he stepped into the new school.
Carl Powers was a terror, either loved or feared by his classmates. He was tall and athletic, winning awards for his school left and right and so the teachers mostly ignored his troublemaking, as clumsy and unsophisticated as it was.
He was constantly surrounded by his many friends. The first time they met, he wrenched Jim's schoolbag from his hand and tossed it to one of his friends. The other boy tossed it back to Carl when Jim made a lunge for it, laughing in delight at Jim's frustrated growls.
Powers held the bag high over Jim's head, smiling down at the smaller boy.
"Got any money on you?" He asked.
Jim only stared, not even reaching up for his bag. Powers seemed unnerved at first, but then he shook it off, and started laughing instead.
"What's the matter?" Carl asked. "Can't talk, you little freak?"
Jim's answer was a punch to the stomach. Powers stumbled backwards, staring in shock at the much smaller boy before launching himself at him. The other boys joined in the fight, which ended with a fair share of bruises all around, most of them Jim's, who didn't hesitate to use his teeth and nails, but was still severely outnumbered.
Jim received a stern lecture for fighting on his first day, but said nothing to the headmaster or to his new step-parents when they asked why he'd been fighting.
The next day, Jim gave what little money he had to Powers and his entourage. He did the same the next day, and the next. When he didn't have any money, which was often, his head would be dunked into the toilets, or he'd be shoved into a locker for hours on end. He never uttered a word.
Several weeks later, Carl Powers drowned to death after suffering some kind of seizure in the pool. A real tragedy, that. Jim's smile never left his face the entire trip back from London. He kept the shoes, and hid them someplace no one would ever think to look.
He wondered, however, at the sadness everyone expressed over Power's death. The boy was a nightmare, and had mercilessly bullied many of the boys who now openly mourned him.
Jim himself never said a word when Powers turned his attention to him, but then again, neither did the rest of the student body. They would laugh instead, whenever Carl and his friends pushed Jim or anyone else around. Even the teachers, much to Jim's puzzlement, would simply ignore it.
Not wanting to be outdone by the likes of Powers, Jim decided to try it himself. Finding a subject wasn't difficult, there were so many to choose from.
He settled for a quiet, overweight boy, who had been one of Powers' targets before. The boy was much larger than Carl had been; physically, he would have been able to take Carl on quite easily, and even most of his friends. Yet the boy shrunk in terror whenever anyone so much as raised their voice near him.
It wasn't hard to turn him into the school's new victim. A few carefully placed rumours made him noticeable. All of the rumours were true, of course; Jim never did anything half-arsed.
All it took was a few teasing remarks that caused the boy to stammer in humiliation. Said in the right company, the teasing turned into a large-scale verbal lynching. Like sheep (who homed in on fresh blood), the rest of the students joined in the fun, shouting insults and jeers at the boy until he ran out in tears.
No one even noticed who started it, but soon the boy couldn't walk anywhere without cruel remarks being thrown his way. At some point even the teachers joined in, their subtle insults were the pebble that might have caused the avalanche.
After only a few months of this, the boy was found dead in his room. A rope looped around his neck as he hung from the ceiling.
Once again, the school was in mourning. They came to class crying, shocked that someone so young would do so such a thing. Of course, he came from a broken home, of course, he never fitted in, and of course… it was so tragic.
Jim watched them dispassionately. Ordinary people were so stupid.
4: Ennui
Jim had always been one to bore easy. By the age of sixteen, he felt as if he exhausted every means of entertainment he had at his disposal. His head constantly swarmed with ideas, numbers, thoughts but they were all too dull, dull, dull to occupy his mind for very long.
Everything was too easy for him, which was the problem. If he were stupid, like the rest of them, he wouldn't have had to deal with it.
Jim shuddered in disgust at the thought of spending every day of his life preoccupied with gossip, and telly and football. He would rather just shoot himself now and get it over with.
He sat up straight, body rigid and interest piqued. Well, that was an idea, wasn't it?
He slumped down again. No, stupid, stupid, stupid. Dying was boring. Staying alive was boring. Maybe he should shoot someone else. But then he'd have to go to prison, and how boring would that be?
Jim got up. He'd been up for three days straight and had barely moved from his bed during that time. He walked over to his desk, and pulled out some of his notebooks. Quickly flipping through the pages, he skimmed his own spidery handwriting, numbers and letters swirling together before his eyes. Useless. Aggravated, he flung the last notebook away.
He collapsed back on his bed, and reached for another cigarette. Maybe he should give the gun a second thought. He shoved his hand under the mattress and pulled out the revolver he kept there.
The handgun had been with him for years. Ever since he stole it from the man his mum was fucking.
Professor J. Moriarty, his new daddy. Jim snorted.
He brought the gun close to his face, examining it. It was a .22 calibre Colt revolver; it was lovely. He turned it around in his hands. Finding ammunition for it wasn't all that hard. He'd always been very reluctant to part with it, even at times when hiding it would have been the safer option. Well, it didn't matter much anymore.
He pressed a small rod that projected from the cylinder, freeing it. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and flung it out the window. Pausing for just a moment of thought, he twisted the revolver on its side, spilling the bullets on his chest. One fell off and disappeared between the bed and the wall.
He picked one of the bullets, brought it to his lips for a quick kiss, and then used it to reload the weapon. He let the cylinder spin freely until it settled in place all on its own.
Jim grinned, excitement coursing through him. The gun housed six bullets. He squirmed a little in excitement and another one of the bullets slid from his chest and to the mattress. He cocked the revolver. He had a one in a six chance to survive. Not bad odds. He felt giddy, the incredible tedium finally, finally departing.
Jim brought the gun to his mouth and wrapped his lips around the muzzle. He inhaled sharply, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Jim groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut. That was amazing.
He licked the barrel, and slipped a hand inside his pants. He was already hard. One out of five was slightly worse odds, but not by much. He liked that. He could spin the cylinder again, play the same odds as before, but that wouldn't give him the same rush.
His pressed his finger to the trigger, not squeezing it enough to make it go off. When he was younger, at the first opportunity he had he took the revolver out to a secret place and practiced on empty beer bottles, and then a wall. He couldn't find anything living to shoot at. Inanimate objects were boring. Shooting was boring. This wasn't boring.
He squeezed the trigger again.
Click.
His whole body jumped, his cock twitched in his palm. His hand was dry and that made it hurt, but he went faster. Could he come before he died?
Jim moaned out loud, not caring who would hear. From outside he could hear a dog barking, a truck beeping as it drove in reverse, someone was laughing. He lifted the gun to his temple, pressing the wet muzzle to his skin.
One out of four.
Click.
He began to laugh, a low, slow chuckle that started in his belly and crawled up his chest. He pulled at his erection, skin reddening and chafing under his rough ministrations. He was close. So close. One out of three was 33.33% and it was such an ugly number. It upset him.
Click.
Jim came in his hand with a groan. He continued to pump his dwindling erection, gun pressed hard against his skin, leaving an angry red mark on his temple.
After several long moments he stopped, bringing his hand to rest above his head, still clutching the gun. He stared up at the ceiling and counted the star pasties someone put up there a long time ago. They were a gross yellow colour, almost as pale as the ceiling. He wanted to shoot at them instead but he had only six bullets and there were twenty-seven star stickers in total.
He sighed raggedly, and it sounded rather choked. He sniffed, dragged his hand over his eyes and sat up on the bed, hanging his head.
One in two. 50% chance to live or die. Those were beautiful odds. It made sense. He stared down at the gun in his hand. A tear fell from his eye, and splashed on the handle. He brushed it away distractedly.
He brought the gun to his head once more, and tucked it under his chin. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head just so and –
Click.
5: Society (The Worst Of)
The year was 1994.
All Jim could think about as he said goodbye to his childhood, was how different everything was going to be from now on.
Things were so bleak where he was; everywhere he looked, all he could see were shades of grey, dull and bland. The people, most of them, barley contrasted against the background noise.
There had been splashes of colour occasionally. Blood was always bright red in his eyes, no matter if it came from a paper cut or a slit wrist. Most people, however, preferred to keep it inside their bodies and out of sight. They laughed nervously when Jim suggested otherwise, and rapidly changed the subject.
They were all unnerved by him. He could only pretend to be boring for so long, after all. His teachers, his classmates, the social workers, even his mother.
Jim had seen her once since he and his brother were taken away. It was over a year ago. She was allowed visitations now, yet when he saw her, all she did was tell him she was sorry, so sorry, and that she never, ever, wanted to see him again. She never used her rights again.
He hadn't even packed his bags when he left. Just got up one day, looked around for a bit, and went. He stopped first to say goodbye to his foster family. Of course, he wasn't completely without manners. He even left them a little something to remember him by. A little token of his… appreciation, and a guarantee that they would not report him missing. Not for another six months or so, he reckoned, but by then he'd be both long gone and past the age of majority, and no one would give a damn anymore.
He began travelling at the age of seventeen. He was anxious to see the world. There must be someplace better, someplace that was alive and vibrant on its own, without needing Jim to paint it in broad strokes of red and orange.
Someplace he could fly.
He wanted to leave earlier, much earlier, before his brain started to wither, but he learned already that a person under a certain age, travelling alone, tended to draw unwanted attention. And curse his rotten ancestry, but Jim always looked small for his age.
He stopped by first to visit his family. If the mountain doesn't come to Mohammed… And all that.
The old town was mostly the same, but a new family had been living in his tiny little childhood home. He sat in their kitchen and drank their tea, smiling shyly at the tutting mother, who fed him and fussed over him with little apprehension.
He learned that his mother and brother had moved back to Ireland a few months ago, and no, she didn't know their new address, and yes, it was an absolute shame for a woman to abandon her child like that. The woman went on and on after that, but Jim hardly listened. He sipped his tea, a small smile flirting with his lips.
They were together again, his old mum and baby brother. Apparently, she really had cleaned up her act, enough to pursue custody of the little brat. Jim hadn't been aware of that.
He dropped by the old man's house, too. He walked in unannounced, a spring in his step, a smile on his face and the old revolver in his hand. Still alive, he discovered, and, as it turned out, living with a new wife that was not Jim's mother. Oh, he bet she loved that. He was as pale as a sheet by the time Jim left, but he blurted out the information Jim needed eagerly and with very little hesitation.
A few days later, Jim's mother shrieked when he showed up at her doorstep. Grinning brightly, he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and then wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly.
"What's for dinner?" He asked. He was taller than her now; she had never been a large woman.
She trembled in his arms when he held her, and lied to him when he asked if his little brother was home.
In a sudden surge of sentimentality, he left the brat with his old handgun, safety off and fully loaded, as every weapon should be. He ruffled the boy's hair before he left once again. His belly was full of a homemade meal and in his heart was a cheerfulness he hadn't felt for a long, long time.
Time to leave, he thought, giddy with anticipation. The world will be his playground, he decided.
He discarded his old surname like yesterday's paper, deciding to take the name 'Moriarty' for himself on a whim. He wasn't sure why he chose to adopt the name, when its owner never adopted him.
It was appropriate, that was all. Jim had met his real father once, in prison, but he wasn't at all impressed. For years, whenever Jim thought father, another face (regal, distinguished, and powerful) came to mind.
And besides, he just liked the way the name rolled off his tongue.
He even printed out business cards. They were blank except for the name "J. Moriarty" in engraved golden letters. He scattered them about randomly, in every new place he visited. He left them behind in airports and on trains, in mailboxes and inside people's wallets (his hands had long reach.)
He went through Europe first. Money wasn't an issue; Jim knew how to get by. He settled in Germany for a bit, in a cramped little apartment in East Berlin and stayed there until the previous owner began to stink up the place something fierce - It was Jim's fault, he bought his first computer and became so distracted that he forgot to feed the man.
Computers were good, he decided.
He stopped briefly in Istanbul, where he experimented with how buildings reacted to different types of explosives (Not well, was his general conclusion.)
He sat down and watched the commotion from the rooftop of a nearby building, swinging his legs from the edge. With the wind blowing just the opposite way, he had a clear view of the fire as it surged high into the sky. He watched the people below him - fire-fighters, police, and civilians, running around like panicked rats, or on their knees, crying over their losses. He finished his Simit, licked his fingers clean and looked down mournfully at the upturned vendor cart on the street. Shame, he could have gone for another bagel.
The next day the newspapers reported about a tragic gas leak. Jim scratched his nose and shrugged. He tossed the paper into the nearest bin, stepping over some rubble in order to do so.
He wasn't in it for the fame, after all.
He liked it when things blew up, but that got boring fast too. No purpose behind the chaos.
After that he never stayed too long in one location. He began to entertain himself by learning all about the places he visited. Not the things that were written in flowery language inside the tourists' brochures or spoken about in polite company. Rather, he found himself fascinated by the underbelly of their worlds.
He became very good at integrating himself into groups that fancied themselves exclusive, and made contact with people who thought they were untouchable. They hardly even knew he existed, hardly even remember him after, but he remembered them. Oh, how he remembered them. Remembered their stories of rape and murder and the things they've done to gain respect on the streets. When drugs and alcohol were rampant, and egos needed to be stroked, there he would be.
Of course, he could have done it better. All of it. They made a lot of mistakes; they were ordinary, after all. He told them so, sometimes, and they laughed until he explained. Then they became real quiet, and ordered more to drink.
Weapons, drugs, women and respect… It all came down to money in the end. He followed the trails with keen eyes, from the lowest street thug to the CEO of the multi million dollar company. Theirs was a society that existed far away from the critical eye of the public, yet not one street corner was left unaffected by it. He found himself drawn to it, drawn to its own unwritten rules and morals, and how sometimes, there were none at all.
But oh, they made so many mistakes, Jim noticed in irritation. Most of them too stupid not to get themselves killed or caught. Even the clever ones simply lacked imagination. Why stage an assassination by using a gun (lovely, messy, traceable) when other methods were easily available? He liked guns, but they lacked both imagination and finesse.
Idiots, idiots, idiots. Everyone, everyone.
Perhaps he should be the one in charge. He thought it might be nice if he had a few toy soldiers of his own. He started a gang in Albania; men depraved enough to not need a monetary incentive and boys desperate and gullible enough to hang onto his every word. Jim knew how to be charming when he needed to be.
That had lasted about a month before he decided to move on. He really wasn't the management type. Too much work.
He carried on, hopping from one continent to the next. The languages were different, but their words were the same. The people looked different, but their minds worked just as slow. Too slow for him to keep up - he could only run around in place for so long. It was exhausting.
He had been delusional before, he decided. Life was boring everywhere. There could be no ambition if no one could see past the tip of their own noses. Wonderland didn't exist. No magical place to keep him busy and entertained.
All the same, he realised, he was starting to get noticed. Those people – his brethren, he thought, once, when he felt jubilant and sentimental – they liked his plans, they liked his ideas. Unlike the social workers, and his teachers, and his mum. And what's best, they followed through.
He could do better than any of them, yes, but why would he want to? Why, when he could make them dance for him, and all the more, they paid him for the pleasure?
There was no Wonderland. But maybe, maybe he could create his own.
+1: Anna
The train was scheduled to depart at 12:04.
Naturally, as railroad services were never especially accurate, the train was delayed. Jim checked his watch, face set in a display of impatience, mirroring the actions of many of his fellow train passengers. Unlike them, however, he had known in advance about the ten minutes delay.
As amusing as watching the tensions rise was, he wasn't there to observe their aggravation. He was there only to make sure the job was handled properly.
He had six more minutes until the train arrived. If it would be there on time, he'd know that the countdown had been set correctly. The ten minutes delay was the amount of time needed to set the explosives, unnoticed, just a small distance ahead of the station, by a few disgruntled - and easily paid off - railroad employees.
It would be the first station the train will visit on its course, and, if everything went according to plan, it would also be its last.
Jim leaned back against the wall, casually stuffing his hands into his pockets. He observed his surroundings from under his ball cap. The train station was packed to the brim with anxious would-be travellers, and Jim estimated the casualties to be in the hundreds.
He should have charged extra.
One member of the crowd caught his eye then. She was a teenage girl, maybe two years younger than Jim himself. She wasn't especially attractive or unusual, but his attention was drawn to the way her eyes had been glued to her shoes when she walked.
His mouth twitched when he noticed the purposeful way her eyes flickered to the rails then, or how she quietly but resolutely made her way to the edge of the platform. She set her backpack on the ground, superstitiously kicking it a short distance away. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself, lifting her eyes to watch for the incoming train.
Jim checked his watch, only five minutes to go. His features twitched in an aborted attempt at a grimace.
Suppressing a sigh, and wearing his kindest expression, he approached the teenage girl, coming to a stand beside her. She almost jumped out of her skin when she noticed him there.
"Nice day, isn't it?" He asked, watching her from the corner of his eye.
She nodded, eyes flickering toward him in barely concealed annoyance.
"Shame that the train's late. Again. Seems like all I do is wait lately. You know that feeling?" He asked.
The girl shrugged, and then shook her head. She took a small step away from him, not enough to seem impolite, but just enough to appear uninterested.
He smiled, and did nothing to close the distance between them.
"I bet you do, though. I was watching you earlier, and I thought you looked like you had someplace better to be." He smiled sheepishly then, running a hand over his hair. "Uh…Sorry, that might have sounded better in my head."
The girl didn't reply, just stared at the tracks some more.
"I also thought, well, you're really pretty." He said, a little shyly. She flinched at his complement, as if it hurt her. At least he knew that she was paying attention to him. "And I was asking myself; why would such a pretty girl look so sad." He turned to look at her, noticed that her head hung low.
"Tomorrow is supposed to be a really nice day too, you know?" He said in a soft voice.
The girl's eyes closed tightly, and she chewed on her lower lip hard enough to leave a mark. She didn't reply at first, and they stood in silence for several long moments.
"Sorry," She finally said. Her voice was a little off, giving the impression that she didn't use it very often. "I didn't mean… I didn't know what else to do." She moved her mouth as if she wanted to say something else, but then changed her mind.
"Do you maybe want to talk about it?" Jim offered. "I'm getting really good at fixing other people's problems." He grinned. "You'd be amazed. I guess it goes with the name."
She raised her head at that, giving him a questioning look.
"It's Jim." He supplied, "Jim'll fix it?" He added, when she still looked puzzled. "Never mind, don't worry about it." He said, and then asked, "What's your name?"
"Anna," She replied, her voice breaking. She hugged herself tightly.
"It's very nice to meet you, Anna." Jim said.
The train could be heard in the distance, approaching fast. The crowd began to shift, some people rose to their feet while others craned their necks in anticipation. Jim watched as Anna's gaze moved to watch the train coming closer, her eyes, shimmering wet, said much more than she could.
The train passed them at top speed, and Anna's hair caught in the breeze it made. She watched the speeding train until it dwindled to a crawl and then came to a stop. A few seconds later the doors opened, and people rushed to get into the small compartments.
Anna turned to him. "I have to…"
He nodded, "Of course." He smiled brightly at her. "I'm catching the opposite one, actually." He gestured toward the opposite platform, and then dropped his hand to rub the back of his neck, still smiling.
Her lips quirked upwards for a second, then she turned away in the direction of the nearest entrance, stopping only to grab her backpack. After a few moments she stood still, stayed that way for a brief moment, and then looked over her shoulder at Jim.
"Thank you," she called out, having to raise her voice. She waved once, just a tiny flicker of her hand, and turned away from him once more, hurrying to get inside the train before all the seats would be taken.
Jim watched her retreating form for a second. He looked down at his watch. 12:14, right on schedule.
He began to turn his back, but then changed his mind. He wasn't sure what made him call out to her. She wasn't particularly attractive, or seemed all that clever to him. Maybe he liked her freckles.
He didn't have a reason to, but then again, he didn't really have a reason not to.
"Anna!" He called out, but she didn't hear him over the commotion. He watched her disappear inside the doors, and then watched when they closed after her.
Ten minutes to the explosion.
Jim stuffed his hands in his pockets, and boarded the opposite train.
The End