A/N. Again I think this was one of the earlier parts I wrote and then edited to death, but I think I like how it turned out in the end.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.
I Hate It
"I hate it..."
The folder had fallen from the table with an almighty crash, spilling its contents across the floor, jerking Lyle back to full consciousness. He really needed to go to bed before three in the morning, he decided, since now he was hearing voices on top of everything else. Cursing under his breath he got down on the floor and started picking up the now scattered papers. They were gonna be a bitch to put back in order now.
"Hey."
Lyle had looked up, searching his mind for the name of the colleague who was giving him a very concerned look of his own. Kevin, he recalled, at least it might have been, a relative newbie who liked to help, even when help was neither wanted nor needed. "Yes?"
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Lyle had replied a little more sharply than perhaps he should have, irritated for no real reason. Damn it, did he ever need more sleep.
"Are you sure?" Kevin had persisted if a little hesitantly, "Only, you're crying..."
At that Lyle really had sworn, violently enough to make the newbie take a couple of steps back and, if possible, look even more concerned than before and just slightly terrified as the twenty-five year old Irishman took the papers he'd been gathering and slammed them on the desk before scrubbing at his eyes and swearing again when he realised that the child wasn't actually lying.
"Lyle..."
Lyle had ignored him, half-confused and half-frustrated about the fact he had no idea what was going on. It had been years since he'd last cried, and now he was for no reason at all – "I hate it..." – the words echoed in his head – his voice, but at the same time not – and he could still hear the crash that the folder had made when it hit the floor and maybe, just maybe he was going insane, staring at the papers, full of words, instructions, directions, details, important business... And found he could comprehend none of it and cared even less. They all looked the same as the crisp, dead words of the letter the council had sent, telling him that they were knocking down his old home. He had no choice in the matter, and he'd tried not to think about it, he didn't live there, no one did anymore. He never thought they'd go through with it, he'd always expected them to be paid off, but they hadn't been.
"Lyle...?"
Lyle had grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, pulling it on even as he searched the pockets for the car keys, cigarettes and lighter, checking they were there and he hadn't left them somewhere else, shoving all of his work for the day into the 'out' box whether it was finished or not, muttering another curse when he received a paper cut for his troubles.
"Lyle!"
"See you tomorrow." Lyle had replied shortly and with a slightly twisted grin, shoving his hands in his pockets before he turned and walked straight out of the office, down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door.
He hadn't looked back, hadn't wanted to be given a reason to stop. Most would just think he was going on break. Others would know he'd been for his break only an hour earlier and wonder why the hell he was leaving the building again, and why the hell he wasn't back for the rest of the day. He'd hoped that Kevin, if that was his name, wouldn't tell anyone what had happened, wouldn't report his apparent mental breakdown, and that people wouldn't spend the next week asking awkward questions. Yeah right, like that was going to happen, he was going to be in trouble come morning.
Walking out had been a stupid plan.
Pity it had been the only thought in his head asides from a voice that wasn't his scaring the hell out of him and a letter he hadn't seen in many months.
Lyle had slumped back in the driver's seat of the Lancia, running a hand through his hair and grinning at the wrecked looking reflection staring back at him from the rear view mirror. It had been no wonder the boy had been concerned if this was how he'd looked; white as a sheet, wide eyed and visibly shaking. He looked ill, and right now, he felt it too.
"Damn you," he told his reflection, fumbling for the cigarettes and lighter, needing to find something to fill the empty silence.
The fact it was empty silence was what had got him. He was used to silence, living on his own for the past seven years, but it had never been empty. Not inside his own head at least. There had always been a sort of faint buzzing of memories, warmth that couldn't really be explained. But it was how he'd always known when he would be getting a call from the local police to pick up the Lancia again, who it was who sent those stupid envelopes of money, and who the footsteps in the snow that ran beside his own belonged to.
And now – he had clicked the lighter once, twice, three times before it caught – it was empty silence and he didn't like it at all. It was too quiet, too cold, and too damn lonely already.
"Nothing, feckin' nothing left." He muttered, running his fingers over and over the initials engraved on the lighter – "I hate it..." – and wondered what the hell had happened. And the part of his mind that still spoke with their grandmother's gentle, firm tone told him to mind his language, he was swearing too much. The other part of his mind didn't really care that much, it was already mapping out the fastest route to the only destination he could think to go to as he turned the keys in the ignition and reversed out of the office car park a little too fast and a little too sharply.
It had only been two or so in the afternoon, and the streets were quieter than they would be in an hour's time when all the schools let out for the day, and he had thrown logic out of the rolled down window as he'd gripped the steering wheel too tight and put his foot to the floor, speeding straight through the red light at the end of the road. Normally he would have been worried about being pulled over, breaking something or crashing, or a mixture of all three, but instead he had just not cared. Neil wasn't there to treat the old car like these roads were a rally track so Lyle was the one driving like a madman, a man on a mission, and he avoided looking in the rear view mirror, knowing what he would see there, a little older yet unchanged from that day ten years ago.
"You bastard," Lyle had whispered, flicking the cigarette butt out the window and clenching his teeth, more angry with the whole damn world than he had been in a long time, maybe than he had ever been as he flung the car round another corner. He hadn't known how and he hadn't known why, all he had known was for a fact that he was alone, and for that blinding moment he had truly hated his brother for doing this too him, for leaving him alone just as he had done at Aislin's funeral.
He had felt like a child again as he pulled over, killing the engine and checking his reflection to see if he looked as bad as he felt. He was still too pale, a vaguely manic look in his eyes, but a trademark and very fake smile covered it up well as he opened the glove compartment and removed the money that was now kept there. It may not have been an emergency in the normal sense of the term, but as far as he had been concerned it qualified. He stepped out of the car, shutting and locking it and not knowing why he ran his hand over the roof of the battered old rally car as he walked back towards the pub he had pulled up at.
He hadn't really cared it was too early to be drinking by any normal person's standard as he waved to the man behind the bar and took a seat.
"What brings you all the way out here, Lyle?" the guy had asked, picking up a glass and raising an eyebrow at the young man in question.
"Felt like a change," Lyle had replied with a shrug, before adding, "The usual, would ya?"
As the day had worn on he hadn't been sure how he had first started talking to the guy who had walked in not long after he had. The guy was German judging by his name, or at least the name he'd given Lyle, despite the flat, bland AEU accent, and there was something just a little bit off in the way he carried himself. Lyle had shrugged it off and ordered another round, waving off the slightly disapproving look in the bartender's eyes. Today he just didn't care, flicking his – not his – lighter and smoking more than he knew he should, but today he just really didn't care. Today he had just wanted something to fill that damned empty silence, and right then drinking himself stupid seemed to be working pretty well. He could go back to work and back to being sensible tomorrow.
In the corner a television set broadcasted the news as evening fell, reporting in the same old tones the same old news; yet another war, another battle, this one in space. There were only words spoken by the woman in a suit sat behind the polished desk, no pictures or videos today. It was just another footnote in history.
Lyle had frowned though as to his alcohol fuzzed brain the words on the screen began making more sense than they should have – "I hate it..." CRASH-BANG – and he had lifted his glass, half full – half empty, what difference did it make? – raised it to the screen with it's bland reporters and repeated news and echoes of history and where was all of this going anyway?
The man beside him had given him a look over the rim of his own glass, not concerned or worried or confused, more contemplative as Lyle had spoken quietly, steadily, and with more conviction than Klaus had heard from his new drinking companion all evening, softly angry and laced with steely determination.
"Sorry Neil, but I guess..." Lyle had stared at the television, seeing something, hearing something maybe no one else could – Bang – and seeing that notice and knowing they, those government bastards, were the ones who were fighting and ripping down homes, his home – "I hate it too."
