A/N: Hey all, I'm back. And just a warning, this chapter turned out pretty dark, for several reasons and without me really wanting it to be dark. Alas, I wanted to explore the relationship between Tru and Jack a little more, and why I have been keeping them apart for the last couple of chapters. Through flashbacks, I hope to answer that.

Thanks to those that kindly reviewed; your thoughts are appreciated more than you may think :)

Without further ado, on with the chapter.

Aftermath
Chapter Three: Mercy

Mercy was a word he had liked. He had placed mercy on a pedestal unlike any other. He always had been chivalrous; mercy was a warm comfort he would have given to anyone in need of it within a moment's heartbeat. But then, way back when, he possessed charity, goodness, kindness, warmth. And a soul.

A soul always seemed to make up the difference.

When he had died, the first time, his soul became lost. It didn't return as his body had. It remained in that place he so loved now, while his body became ravaged and stricken with inhuman craving for blood.

He killed without remorse, if only to feed his curiosity about the delicacy of the human life. There had also been the element of seeking the place beyond life; that place he had visited, briefly, before he was sucked back into life. Without mercy, it had seemed.

He had wondered back then, why did she choose who lived and who died? Why was she the voice of God, commanding and superior? What gave her the right to take him away from the comfort he had finally found?

But mercy became him after his body and soul found each other once again. He understood now, how intricate and beyond her abilities were. Her calling as she so often referred to it as. He no longer felt resentment at her for choosing him to live again. He felt mercy for her choice, as he did for her being, as well.

Perhaps he did not so mercifully accept her opposite; the man they called Death

Death himself had no mercy, no peace of mind, or heart, to give compassion to the weary. His only purpose in life now was to spread death in a stream of pure, black chaos. To render Life useless in her path.

Death had no mercy.

Every morning the black ink would seep further into his blood, poisoning him. He felt it prick and sting his back as he was reminded painfully of the time he had been too drunk to feel the ache. Years ago, now, he recalled distantly, ashamed to bear the mark of such a word he no longer felt he possessed.

He was grateful for the foreign lettering, the inky paint strokes of a word not just anyone would understand in its cryptic passage.

Jack pressed a weary hand to his taut shoulder; it felt solid, not from muscle, but from exhaustion. He stared hard into the tall mirror that glinted skin before him. Void of a shirt, Jack stood motionless in front of the deceptive glass that may or may not be real.

He didn't know anymore.

With a heavy sigh and a tired grunt, Jack noticed wearily how empty a mirror truly was. Only painting a reflection; an image of something completely disposable, destructible, even. What about the indestructible? What about the pain, the sadness, and depression and everything else that could not be reflected in a mere image.

What about all of that? Where did that fit in?

Jack felt the dull aching of a hangover. Too much drinking; though not enough to ease the pain of memory.

He wanted to make things right, to reap mercy to those who needed it, to give back what he knew others deserved. He wanted to give life to the dying, a chance to the damned.

Remembering a time when he had given that chance many a time, Jack caught a lump in his throat. He tried to swallow it, tried to rid himself of its choking hold, but it wouldn't go away.

It would never go away, he knew. Not until he stopped listening.

That was his problem; he was always listening to the wrong voices.

The stabbing arrogance was a front; a façade forced upon his rugged face. The pure conviction was only words in his mouth.

He didn't want people to die. He wanted to give them mercy.

And he would always be reminded of that.

The untouched mug of coffee ceased to steam from the mouth as it grew cold in the sombre air. It rested on a coaster that was designed with an array of colours and flowers in full bloom. The beauty that was born from the desolate skeletons of winter.

Tru didn't notice the beauty even as she stared at the coaster. All she saw were dull colours bleeding together in a sad portrait of something dead.

The diner was abuzz with activity, as it always was in the early morning, with the workers bustling to grab their coffees off the counter, or couples enjoying a lazy dawn while digging into a generous breakfast.

She didn't notice.

Even though she plastered on a false sense of security, Tru was finding it increasingly difficult to forge a smile, especially to those closest to her. Even to her own brother.

Harrison waved a careless hand in front of his sister's face, whistling quietly to her still form. "Tru? Earth to Tru. Incoming call from planet Harrison…"

She flicked her eyes to his face, recognition breaching through a void stare. "Sorry, I wasn't listening. Long night."

With two curved fingers, Harrison scratched the rough surface of his chin where thin stubbles of dark hair grew. "Aren't they all. Anyway, I wanted to talk about Dad."

Their usual padded booth was hard against Tru's back as she shifted, glancing wearily at the cold toast before her. She hadn't touched it. "What about Dad?"

Harrison shrugged casually, the folds of his shirt crinkling with the sudden motion. "I don't mean to sound ignorant or anything, but lately Dad's been a little preoccupied. I tried talking to him the other day, you know, son to father, but he blew me off. I thought he gave me this job so we could get to know each other more, but now I'm thinking…"

"Harrison," Tru interrupted harshly, creasing her eyebrows, lowering her look, "just because Dad's not interested in you doesn't mean he doesn't care. He probably has a lot on his mind at the moment. And, I mean, don't we all?"

Blinking, Harrison moist his lips nervously. He had noticed his sister's change in behaviour, the slight nausea every morning, the loss of appetite, and the hunger for darkness. "Tru, I know you've been through a lot over the last few weeks, but you're not letting me in. I want to help but I don't know how to."

Sighing in mock frustration, Tru gripped the underside of the table. "You don't have to. I'm fine. And I'm trying to get on with my life, so could you please not mention this again."

Harrison knew she wasn't fine. Harrison knew his sister had not slept in days. Harrison knew his sister was drinking incessantly. Harrison knew his sister was slipping.

And Harrison knew he could do nothing to help her.

He glanced down to her plate of toast. Untouched. He ran his tongue over his teeth in thought before dismissing his concerns. Leave them for another day. "Are you going to eat that?"

She shook her head and pushed the plate along the table. It stopped in front of Harrison, and he glanced at her one last time, before slicing the cold toast with a blunt knife.

The white room was quiet. Placid and sterile in the afternoon's daze of comfortable silence. The utterance of an occupant of the otherwise empty room stuttered into life as he examined human tissue with bloodied pliers. His dark hair seemed electrified, shocks of soft spikes shooting up. His white lab coat flailed behind him as he marched towards a small pool of water collected in a bowl. He dipped the pliers into the water, immediately staining it a murky red. Holding the pair of small scissors to his eyes, he noted the dripping droplets of crimson water and watched as the pale matter split with moisture.

The double doors swung open suddenly to reveal a flustered young women, her hair in tatters, her clothes disdained. Tossing her head back in frustration, she turned to her accomplice with bitter eyes.

"She's not here," she spoke with an angry tone, upset and flustered, "she never signed in this morning."

The young man carefully lowered his pliers, gripping the edge of his glasses and pulling them away from his face. "Are you sure? Maybe she could have…"

"Tyler," the flustered women interrupted fiercely, "I've checked with everybody. She didn't come in today."

Tyler's eyes lowered darkly, his look descending into sadness. "Ave, it's been three weeks. I know we took our time off, but this is bad. I don't think she's coming back."

Avery fought tears. She fought them really hard. Bringing a hand to her face, she smoothed the gentle blonde curls from her eyes. "I've left her a couple of hundred messages. Hasn't returned even one of them."

"I know," Tyler breathed with shaky breath, "the last time I saw her was at the funeral."

…pale white roses sighed in the heavy rain as the deep ebony of the coffin seemed to run with the cold droplets of water. His hair was mattered, dripping cold, but he didn't care. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not at a time like this.

He saw her there, an image painted in mourning black, dark hair strangling either side of her neck as she stood still. She looked as dead as the inside of the coffin was…

…Avery took a step towards the laboratory table, where implements lay about, messy and intrusive. Intricate splatters of blood were drying like ash on the solid surface of the marble. Tyler stood in front of her, hands clasping the edges of the cold table.

Shrugging, Tyler began to collect the bloodied implements, dumping them unceremoniously into a steaming bucket beside him. "I think we should leave. It doesn't seem right. Not without her."

With a final look of pain towards the laboratory, Avery dug her hands into her white coat and strode towards the swinging doors. She too had often wondered if any of this seemed worth anything anymore. Without Jensen, the world seemed cruel and cold, foreign in the wake of his death.

And, like Tru, Avery didn't see the worth in trying anymore.

He was drinking again. A couple of hours short of midnight, Jack found himself sitting on the same stool, indulging in the same pounding music, and downing the same drink as any other night. The cool, thick liquid poured gently down his throat as he lifted his head to it, saluting in the dark of the lonely bar. The bartender stared worriedly, wondering if he should be doing something, anything, to stop a man from killing himself.

But then, how could Death get any deader?

Jack dug his haughty laughter into the back of his throat, snuffling weakly in the horrid light. He hated what he had become. He hated being the way he was. And yet, when he reached the pinnacle of not caring, he found himself just floating above it; protesting to the world around him.

It didn't mean a thing to him. Not anymore. Nothing mattered; not the burning cold alcohol he shot through his blood, nor the growing feelings of an obsession with his rival. Those things didn't matter when he was drunk. They just left him, escaped his grasp and fluttered away into the night.

He wondered idly what she would be doing tonight.

He imagined, if only to warrant a taste of satisfaction. She would be alone, in her apartment, flicking through an old photo album of memories long turned to dust. Memories that hung loose through a noose in a gaping hole that opened her skin, exposed what was beneath. She would be fighting the tears that would not last long, pooling in the rims of her eyelids. They would fall, gently, softly, smearing her cheeks with salty sweet memories.

But then, what did he know? He couldn't even save her. He had no right to imagine.

It was nights like these, these increasingly haunting nights of pale emptiness, that Jack lost all compassion. Mercy left him, ink trickling from the skin of his back in thin leaks of black.

Nights like these, he truly was Death, in all its glory. He sought to wreak havoc; he sought to watch them all suffer to the bottom of their empty deaths. He sought bloody satisfaction in the bluntly aching heroics of dying souls.

He sought Life, just so he could torture her so.

Jack felt a draft through the bar, a rippling breeze that ripped through him as he turned to glance over his shoulder fleetingly. His eyes were blurry, drained of sufficient sight by the dull scotch.

When his eyes settled, and his sight focused, he could see her, wearing nothing but black as her hair dragged around her shoulders. Her eyes were as dark as night. She was empty.

She saw him, as she had not quite enough nights ago. Eyes darkening, Tru strode into momentary life, pushing through the crowd and escaping with a frustrated sigh.

Not unlike the other night, Jack fumbled in his stool, however this time he succeeded in grasping a hand through the crowd, stumbling through to the back door.

She walked briskly, possessed even still with grief and anger.

He followed her, losing her sometimes, then finding her again hiding in the dark shadows of the filthy alleyway. She crawled against the murky walls, stumbling over garbage in the dark of night.

Tiring eventually, she stopped, back rigid against the wall. Tru waited for Jack to find her, she waited for his piercing gaze and solid righteousness. She waited for him.

Jack slowed his mad stumbles, hands pressing flat against the wall, trapping her mercilessly. He breathed stale alcohol down onto her, intoxicating her with ripe fumes of dead memories.

Reminded starkly of the night they had both drunk too much, Tru tried to crawl into the wall, digging her fingernails into the crumpling concrete…

…his lips were forceful, crashing down on hers in a drunken rage of twisting emotions. Trying to pry him off, he refused by running a hand down her side, clutching around her waist and pulling her towards him.

No longer safe in the sanctity of her own apartment, Tru felt a dark fear ripple through her menacingly.

Jack was kissing her furiously, not like he had the night she needed comfort, but this time he was rough, scratchy facial hair grating against the soft, pale skin of her cheek.

Even with his drunken kiss, she felt oddly at ease. Even though she fought him off, resisting him adamantly, she still felt an ache when his lips left hers. Even though they had been forceful and prying, she still felt as if they belonged on hers.

Tru eased him away from her, taking his hand and leading it away from her body. They stood apart, connected still by lifeless hands, hanging limp in front of them. He pulled apart, turned and left, apologising through pressed lips.

He left her alone to deal with the cold absence of his dead lips…

…and even after everything, she trusted him with her life. Hadn't he saved her from Jensen? Hadn't he let her crumple into his lap and cry until tears stained his shoulder when she had pulled the trigger? Hadn't he been there, time after time, watching her, protecting her from what she couldn't see?

Now, he rested his weary head on her heaving shoulder, tired and dizzy from the stale liquor. He breathed deep, taking in her scent that remained even still.

"I don't want it to be this way," he slurred uneasily, dangerously slipping away from her. "I want it to be different."

Tru sobbed, needless, dry sobs that never shed a tear. She convulsed on the inside, shivering and shaking with a numb pain that grew as she reached out to stroke the rough sides of his cheek.

"Jack," she spoke with a choked voice, "we killed a man."

Pausing, she tucked her thumb underneath his chin, lifting it so she could see his blurred eyes that couldn't settle.

Her whisper hung loosely in the air, haunting it until it dissipated into the dry night, "We don't get to come back from that."

A/N: Hope that wasn't too dark for y'all :) Reviews are always appreciated.

Peace