It was a beautiful day.
Really incredible.
The sky was empty, but for the occasional cotton-wool puffs of cloud skittering here and there. An endless expanse of gloriously blue sky illuminated by the brilliant light of the mid-morning sun hung above them.
The gentle fingers of the breeze were the only things that prevented it from being too hot, but - as it was - everything was just right: temperature, wind speed, brightness.
Standing on the small hillock, Demi shifted her feet, the grass still moist with the dew of the dawn, her loose hair swirling around her in a golden corona, her slender arms folded across her black-clad breasts.
It seemed bitterly ironic that the day was so heavenly, everything seeming more alive than she could ever recall it being, while they were here, in the deserted cemetery to pay tribute to a man who had been claimed by death.
Around her, nature sang with vibrancy: the grass was vividly green, blooming bushes and flowers bringing an aurora of colour, the sounds of birds singing - heedless to the mourning ground that they were in.
Demi's sandalled feet were damp with the moisture of the ground beneath her feet, the bottom of her skirt brushing lightly along the tips of the grass as she walked, paying no heed to her companion, tears welling in her eyes at the memories that had brought her here this day.
"Are you all right?" The gentle male voice asked, sending her tumbling over the abyss of pain, crystalline drops trickling down her still-bruised face.
"I'll be fine." She forced a pained smile, raising one hand to scrub away the tears with the heel of her hand, the stitches along her cheek throbbing unbearably. "It's just..." She gestured to the small group gathered by the grave side. "It makes me remember things I don't want to."
Offering her his arm, he gave her a nod. "He didn't deserve to die like that, Dem." Philip murmured, squeezing her hand reassuringly, the black silk of her shirt brushing against his fingers. "No one ever does."
She swayed unsteadily against him, her head bowed. Carefully sliding an arm loosely around her waist, he winced, feeling the thick padding of the bandages that still were binding her ribs back into the right position.
Seeing her on her feet had deceptively told him that she was all right, but - having her almost using him as something to hold her upright - reminded him just how injured she was and just how much she had been through.
As they neared, the family members surrounding the open grave all acknowledged her arrival with solemn looks and polite nods, one of the younger men in the group offering her one of the few seats, seeing her weakened condition.
Gratefully accepting, sinking down stiffly, she grasped his hand, squeezed it. "I'm sorry about your brother." She said quietly, the unshed tears glittering in her swollen golden eyes. "He was a good man. Too good."
"I know." The sad smile she received in turn made her heart break. Lowering her head, she bit her lip as the preacher started to speak, proclaiming how great a loss the world had suffered at the hands of death.
Folding her hands in her lap, Demi picked at her thumbnail, tears trickling down her cheeks and dripping silently onto her fingers, every breath a labour to take in, remembering why she was here once again.
And still, the birds sang happily in the trees.
* * *
"How are you feeling? Really..."
Rina's shoulders rose in a slight shrug, then she grinned happily. "I've been wanting to do that for so long!" She exulted, repeating the shrug for emphasis. "I've got some feeling back in my shoulders...it hurts, but I can feel them, so its all good."
"What about your legs?" Annie was sitting cross-legged on the end of the red-haired dancer's bed, sketching another picture for her, while they were talking, only pausing occasionally to sip some orange juice.
The red head winced. "They hurt like buggery." She admitted ruefully, leaning forward to scratch the bump in the blanket that Annie assumed was her knee. "I can't wait to get the casts off. They itch like crazy."
Gripping her pencil between her teeth, Annie pulled a sympathetic face, adding a smirr of colour to the sketch. "I broke my leg once." She remarked, sticking her red pencil behind her ear. "I hated every second of it, especially the cast, even though everyone signed it."
At that, Rina's face split into a scarred grin. Tugging the blanket back as much as she could, she revealed the cast, covered in signatures and filthy comments. "The guys thought it would be funny to write dirty jokes for the doctors to read." She confided. "And they say artists are nice people! I don't think so!"
"Are those...all the CATS cast signatures?" Annie bent forward, her eyes running over some of the comments and jokes written on the white plaster, her face turning a peculiar shade of crimson. "Um...are they always this...suggestive?"
"More than you would believe." Rina couldn't help but chuckle at the older woman's obvious embarrassment, the blatant crudeness of some of the words shocking. "They're a great bunch, but they can't resist being pervs...especially Micki...she has no shame!"
Annie raised an eyebrow. "Isn't she Jemima?"
"Little innocent Jemima played by the girl with the filthiest mind in the cast." The red nodded with a smirk. "After me, of course."
"Of course."
The two women exchanged grins. "You're not meant to agree." The dancer chastised, wagging a finger. "You're meant to tell me how sweet and normal and cute and funny and innocent I am! Take a hint, girl!"
"You mean," Annie feigned horror, eyes round. "You wanted me to lie?"
Rina pouted. "I call it stretching the truth." She muttered sulkily. "Anyway, I'm allowed to be deluded, aren't I? It's all part of being an artist."
"Artist?" The sketch pad was laid down on her bed, Annie striking the classic pose of 'The Thinker', a frown wrinkling her brow. "Artist...hmm...you call prancing about on a stage and trying to sing being an artist?"
She promptly started laughing when a feebly-flung grape hit her right in the middle of her forehead, dropping with a soft thump onto the blanket.
"Don't insult the invalid," Rina warned, faking a glare. "Or else!"
"Or else what?" Annie's eyes glinted impishly. "You'll pelt me with grapes? See me quaking in my boots!"
"No." The red head gave her a smug smirk. "I'll do something far worse..." Annie looked at her expectantly. "I," She announced proudly. "Will pout!"
Throwing a hand over her eyes, in a overly-dramatic gesture, Annie pretended to swoon back on the bed with a wail. "No!" She moaned. "Anything but that! Anything but..." She shuddered visibly. "The pout!"
Rina preened, her grin contagious. "You see!" She crowed triumphantly, her brown eyes dancing wickedly. "I am still a big, bad individual and there's nothing - not even two broken legs - that can change that!"
"I think it's because you're a registered psychotic." Annie remarked, resuming her sketching. "No one wants you to bite their ankles when they annoy you." Her expression was dead pan. "I hear its a very nasty way to go, by ankle-biting."
Rina cast an indignant look at the woman. "I'm gonna tell Demi you said that." She said petulantly. "She'll be mad! She'll beat you all up for me! When she gets back, I'll let her pummel you with my pillow!"
Annie's hand stilled over the paper. "You think she'll be okay?" She asked, her tone suddenly serious. "I mean, the whole funeral thing..."
"I hope so." Rina sighed softly. "I don't want to lose her again."
No explanation was needed for that statement. Both women knew - without a doubt - what kind of loss the red head meant.
* * *
I'm really worried about Demi.
Since we left the cemetery, she hasn't said a word. Hasn't even looked at me for about half an hour. Her mind seems focused elsewhere, eyes staring away into nothing, always on the verge of shedding tears, but *just* holding them in.
Not that I expected her to be all sunshine and laughter, after watching that shiny coffin lowered into the ground, the earth thrown in, the covering of the gleaming panels emphasising the finality and closure of the circumstances.
I sometimes wish she would just let her emotions out. She let a few silent tears fall, but I wish she would give in and just cry it out, instead of bottling up the emotions that she is trying to hard and unsuccessfully to hide.
We're on the way back to the hospital now, so maybe Rina's lunacy will stir her out of this despondency, kinda give her the metaphorical kick up the arse and get her to be herself, instead of the tragic shell we've been seeing of late.
I don't even want to know what her kidnapper inflicted on her, but whatever it was, she's going to bear both the mental and physical scars for a long time, a very long time, if not for the rest of her life.
Especially after what happened to Menke.
Life is cruel to the people who least deserve it. It's one of the suckiest and most unfair thing in the world, the innocent being struck down, while lunatics run free and torment the helpless.
God, I'm starting to sound all poetic and stuff! Anyone would think I was some kind of vigilante fighter for the people with all my ramblings about saving the world and how the villains should be swept away by the good guys.
Stating the obvious, that's what I do best.
I'm not meant to be smart. I'm just meant to be a brainless pleb with a talent for dancing and wiggling my sexy arse, not being able to give comfort and reassurance like the best psychiatrists in the land.
I mean, I had the CATS cast as sample cases - I couldn't do anything to help those lunatics. They were too far gone.
But there we go.
None of us are really what we seem. We assume the masks of a stereotype, while hiding our true selves...this coming from the dancer-actor-singer with a degree in Psychiatry and Human Psychology. Munkustrap as a psychiatrist, complete in labcoat, with the glasses halfway down his nose...there's a strange image.
Its true though: You look at Demi and you don't think she could be as tough as she is. The same goes for Rina - she looks like a fiery, sexy airhead, but she's on of the gutsiest and toughest, smartest girls I know.
Menke was the same. He looked like a big clown, mischievous and ready for playing a prank at any hour of the day. He didn't look like he had the guts or strength for anything but idiocy, but - when the chips were down - he had more in him than any of us gave him credit for.
He was a truly incredible man.
* * *
Tea.
It's always good in a crisis.
Can't say why, but when you have a cup of tea in your hand, everything always seems that little bit better. Maybe someone spiked the tea, but hell, if it makes me feel better, why not enjoy it while it lasts.
I've just been reminded in gritty, earthy detail why I hate funerals. It's not the coffins: shiny, elaborate boxes. It's not the preacher people: okay, sometimes, they are boring and smell like mothballs, but its not that.
It's the actual burial - the finality of it all, having to face that someone really is dead and that - no matter how much you pray, beg or cry in secret - nothing is ever, ever going to bring that person back to life.
Plus, cemeteries always give me the creeps, be it in the middle of the night on Halloween or during a beautiful, sunny day in the middle of summer. Just the thought of the corpses beneath the earth, rotting and worm-infested.
Aren't I the happy camper?
Rina thinks I need to buy a punch bag, paint a red-haired man on it and pummel the living stuffing out of it with my bare hands. She also suggested using knives, matches and pretty every other dangerous utensil, until I had spanked my inner moppet and started to get over whatever it is I'm under.
As far as I can see it, there's only one thing that will help me feel better and that's knowing that he'll never come after me again.
Call me paranoid - I wasn't called Schizo Kitty for nothing - but until I know he's gone, completely, I'll never be able to stop looking over my shoulder, waiting for his next attack, waiting for whatever he has planned in revenge.
"How was the funeral?" Rina asks, overly-brightly. I know she's playing me for some kind of conversation or reaction and there's every chance she'll pelt me with the smarties I gave her unless I do some talking.
I shrug, sip the tea, pulling a face because its practically a solid block of sugar. "It was a funeral." I tell her. "Kinda dead. Kinda depressing. Box put in ground, people crying, box buried, flowers laid, then we came back here."
"Were there many people there?"
Again with the shrugging, I sigh. "His family." I remember their pain-filled faces, the faces of his parents, his brothers. "They were kind of awkward, but they were nice enough to me, considering where we were."
"You should have waited for me." A new voice put in from the door. "I would have gone with you, you know."
I look up and have to smile. Another of the walking wounded from McCafferty's little escapades has decided to show face, instead of spending his time stalking the doctors - which should be difficult, considering he's still in a wheelchair because of his spine.
From what we can tell, dissecting the medical jargon, the bullet went through flesh and lodged with the tip pressing dangerously against his spinal cord. So, taking the weight off his legs and spine seems a good idea.
"You wouldn't have liked it." I tell him, as he squeaks his way into the room, stopping on the opposite side of Rina's bed. "I'm sure you would have rather spent the time annoying my kid sister here. I know she isn't about to object to it."
It's almost cute. For the first time I can recall, someone has succeeded in making my wild, flirty sister blush red enough to match her hair. "Shut up." She informs me in a low, threatening growl, screwing up her face.
"You don't mean that." He reaches up and pats her hand, a smirk curving his mouth up in a naughty smirk. "I know you like my company, don't you?"
Rina dares to glare at him, her face set in a mockery of a scowl. "Only because I can't run away from you." She mutters. "You tail me everywhere in that bloody chair of yours. I can't even pee without you showing face."
It's William's turn to blush. The policeman has been a gem, ever since he ended up in the hospital apparently. They've even renamed this small ward - its only got four beds - after us, in a strange, cute kind of way: The Junkyard.
It seemed appropriate for us to all stay together, in case our mutual fiend had arranged some surprises for us, before he kidnapped Menke and I. You know the kind I mean - I really have this violent dislike of assassins and their rather rude tendency of actually trying to kill me.
"It's not like I want to see you peeing! When you pull back your curtain and wave your new catheter at me, its kinda hard to miss the meaning!" He pulls a face, gesturing to one of the many tubes leading from Rina's body.
Rina is up in arms immediately. She finally has someone as crazy as her to bounce insults off. "You liar! You're the one who was peeking between my curtains!" I exchange weak smiles with Philip and Annie, both of whom are grinning. "I saw you! You can't hide those wheels of yours! I can see them under the bottom of the curtain!"
"Bloody hell, luv!" Both of them are grinning widely at each other, preparing the next barrage of insults. "I was on my way to the telly room and just happened to be rolling by when the nurse was fiddling with your wotsits!"
"So they're 'wotsits' now?" Rina flares indignantly and I have to laugh. "If I have to hear another word from you about what my bits are called I'll..."
"Shaddup!" A weak wail interrupts the pair of them.
* * *
Crossing the room, Demi pulled the curtains around the fourth bed back, her lips rising in smile, as her eyes met the pair of familiar green. "So you've decided to wake up at last, you lazy bugger." Sitting down on the edge of his bed carefully, she gently lifted his hand in hers.
"How could I sleep with that racket?" Sleepily gazing up her, he smiled painfully, his body laced with wires, tubes and needles from every imaginable piece of skin.
"We weren't that loud!" Rina shouted across at him. "You should have heard your snoring! Anyone would think your lungs were still full of gunky stuff!"
Menke tilted his head slightly. "Speak for yourself." His breath wheezed in his lungs, the bandages and strapping around his ribs restricting his breathing.
Large swabs patched over the area they had sliced open to perform open-heart surgery on the actor, at the scene of his shooting, massaging his heart with their hands and bringing him back from the brink, just in the nick of time.
"Are you feeling okay?" Demi brushed a hand over his cheek, grateful for the small blessing that many of his fractures had been clean ones, needing a relatively low number of major operations to put him back together.
His eyes were still heavy. "Chests sore." He admitted, flexing his right hand around hers, the needle inserted under his skin shifting as he stretched the stiff muscle. "They didn't need to cut me up...couldn't they electrocute me instead?"
"Everyone wants to cut you up, Menke." Philip remarked, leaning on the end of his co-workers bed, a small smile on his face. "You're just the ideal type to sink a knife into, so likeable and everything...with fava beans and a nice chianti."
"I knew you had homicidal tendencies." Annie remarked, her arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder, "And you'd look really cute in the mask and chained up to one of those stretcher things, at my mercy..."
"Don't tempt me." Philip's blue eyes glinted impishly. "Bondage fun care of Annie Lawson...I have a sudden urge to be bad!"
Annie smacked him fondly on the backside. "You dare." She warned him softly, ignoring the amused looks from Demi, Menke, Rina and William. "You won't like what I do to you."
"Whatever it is," Philip smirked, winking down at the half-sleeping Menke. "It sounds like it would be a lot of fun."
"Told you he was a randy perv." The dark-haired dancer murmured tiredly. He was drugged up to the gills, everything comfily wrapped in a warm blanket of reassuringly blurry fuzziness, leaving him half-focused, but awake.
"I wonder who could be his influence." Demi whispered softly, brushing a lock of his shorn hair back from his stitched forehead. Menke pulled a face that was his most innocent, schoolboy one. "Don't you try that expression with me, Mister. I know you too well."
Nodding, he let his eyes fall closed, everything still an incredible effort. He'd remained unconscious for almost three full days after they were brought to the hospital, doped up to his ears, while they tried to fix at least some of the damage that had been done.
In particular, he was eager to get rid of the bloody great big hole they'd made in his chest. He recalled something about doctors and the fact they were meant to help, not hack open your chest and play with your heart.
He'd even accidentally knocked a doctor unconscious with his plaster-encased left arm - in a reflex motion - when the poor man had been checking the wound, unaware that Menke's painkillers had not been administered yet.
That was the day he had fully regained consciousness and convinced them to let him share the ward with his wife, sister-in-law and the police chap.
Forcing his eyes open, he found Demi still looking down at him, expression full of tenderness, concern and love. "What's the plan?" He asked softly. "When?"
"As soon as you feel up to it." Demi's eyes were glassy with tears, her right hand wrapped around his softly, left hand brushing his cheek with a feather-light caress. "When you can sit, we'll steal a chair and go for a joyride, maybe mow down a few doctors and orderlies, while we're at it."
He smiled weakly. "Sounds like fun." He managed to say, before letting sleep take him again, the drugs in his bloodstream too much to fight against.
* * *
"You sure you're ready for this, love?"
Wincing as his swollen knees were bent, to allow him to sit, Menke nodded, his knuckles whitening when he sank into the low seat of the wheelchair. "I want this over with." He forced his words out through gritted teeth, sitting back.
Demi nodded. Another week had passed since the funeral of Phipps and Menke was now able to sit up and had just been put back on solid foods two days previously.
Still wired up to various drips and wrapped in more bandages than a mummy, he was healing, slowly but surely, the operation-wound in his chest by far the most serious of all his injuries.
"See you when you get back." Rina gave him a reassuring smile from her bed. Will glanced over with a small nod. The pair were sitting, playing cards, as they had been for several hours, with the development that this was now a strip poker game.
That only provided more incentive for Menke to get out of the room, Demi had noted dryly, when the doctors had peered in to find Rina trying to wriggle out of her t-shirt, the topless, bandaged Will complaining that all the bandages ruined the point of the game.
"Try not to catch a cold." Menke smiled back as best he could. His face was a mess, a curve of ten stitches arcing across the left side of his brow, eyes swollen with bruises that were fading into a mouldy yellow.
His long, dark hair had been cut, a large patch shaved off completely to allow the doctors to stitch his scalp, the impact of his head on the steering wheel of the car almost cracking his skull.
Tucking a blanket around his bruised, scared and stitched legs, Demi patted his knee gently, a small smile on her face. "You can talk, mister." She murmured affectionately, raising one hand to brush her fingers over the stubble of his hair, the millimetre long bristles rasping against her fingertips.
"Why did they have to take my mane?" Pouting sullenly, he shifted his weight, the healing holes left by the chest drains and the bullet straining uncomfortably. "I miss my lovely hair!"
"I know, I know." Demi feigned a sigh of exasperation, stepping behind the chair and turning it towards the door. Although still weak herself, her back had healed, her torn and aching muscles functioning better than they had in weeks.
Steering the chair down the long, sterile corridors, the young woman exhaled a slow sigh, raising a hand to brush her hair behind her ears. "You know, Menke," She said, hesitant. "I don't know if this is such a good idea."
Menke glanced up at her, his eyes burning with emerald fire. "You said yourself that we have to deal with this, Demi." He reminded her gently. "Something about having no life until you know its all over and he can't get us."
"Yeah." She nodded reluctantly. "I guess so."
* * *
This is it.
Getting these last three months of crapness over, once and for all, not just for Demi's sake, but for mine as well.
We need to face the past, accept that it's all over and that it won't come back and bite us on the butt again, as it has done before.
What kind of man would I be if I told my brave wife that I was about to pee myself with terror and wanted to get up and run away down the halls, screaming and giggling hysterically? I'd be a coward, that's what I'd be.
And I'd be a coward for the rest of my life.
That doesn't bear thinking about.
So, I'm using my Demi's gutsy resolve and strength to give me strength too, so we're effectively leaning on each other to get through this, once and for all. So it will all be over and we can live happily ever after...whatever that means.
And sue the doctors for daring to cut all my hair!
You know, they have no idea how annoyed I am about that! They don't realise how important a tom's mane is to his self-esteem, so now - since I have a head covered with very badly-cropped stubble - I'm not feeling at my peak.
Also, having a bleedin' great big hole in your chest kind of makes you feel a little lower than your best, you realise.
Honestly, I have more stitches in me than a primary school needlework class, all over my face, my arms, legs...even on my bum! You have *no* idea how relieved I am that I was unconscious when they decided to practise their sewing on *that* part of my anatomy!
Happily - though - I can feel all of my body.
Unfortunately, that feeling, in the majority of cases, is pain. I wiggle my toes, it hurts: I nod my head, it hurts : I attempt to hurl a fruity projectile - also known as a Sainsbury's seedless grape - at my sister-in-law, it hurts.
Doctors are useless at treating dancers. They tell us to sit still. That in itself is a challenge no dancer ever wants to contemplate. If we're not dancing, then we always have an excess of energy to burn off unless we want our rumps big enough to span the English channel.
Lucky me, though. I have a physiotherapist while Rina is just left - plastered. Take that in whatever sense you will, but she's hating it. She lived to dance...or to play a practical joke and run like hell on those long legs of hers.
The doctors tell her she probably will never dance again, but this is the wrong person to say "You won't..." to, because, with Rina, absolutely anything is possible. If she wants to dance, she will dance, no matter what anyone says.
And when our mutual enemy said to me that Demi and I would never be able to survive without him there to torment us, I felt a measure of Rina's determination and complete stubbornness to prove him wrong.
So, we will.
Demi and I are strong enough to get through anything together. We're not two soft, timid teenagers. We've been through the fires of hell and...I know we got the ashes to prove it.
Oy vey.
Quoting Meatloaf...what is the world coming to?
But that's songs right. We've suffered, felt the pain, bear the scars and we can get through this, no matter what happens.
And then I'll find a doctor who won't cut a bloody great big hole in my chest!
* * *
The twin doors swung inwards, allowing the wheelchair to be pushed through, Menke's uninjured hand tightly locked around the end of the arm of the chair, jaw locked, expression taut and tense.
Behind him, Demi's expression matched that of her husband, her teeth sinking into her lower lip anxiously, eyes flicking this way and that, searching for the malignant presence she had always come to fear.
"Good afternoon, Sir, Ma'am." The police guard rose and inclined her head in a polite gesture. "How are you feeling?"
Menke smiled weakly. "Bald, tired and sore." He replied, his nails sinking into the cushion beneath his hand. "You bored of hanging round this dump yet? Can't be the most exciting thing you've ever done."
"I've been in worse situations." The policewoman's tough facade melted away, replaced with a friendly smile. "Never let yourself be assigned to school duties...little squirts running around, biting your ankles all over the place...sheer hell."
"They say never work with children or animals." Demi agreed ruefully. "I've got the animals at work, then I have this big kid when I get home at night." Her eyes twinkled merrily. "You don't get much worse than that!"
Menke glared up at her. "Hey!"
"Sorry, sweetie." Demi's voice was sugary, one hand rubbing his shoulder fondly. "I forgot that you found the title toddler more appropriate."
Menke rolled his eyes, then turned his attention back to the policewoman. "Are we allowed in to visit?" He asked. "Is it safe?"
"Well, he's not going to be running out on us, that's for sure." Gesturing to the door that lead off from the main ward, the policewoman gave the couple a wry smile. "I think I could probably let you in for a few minutes, if that's enough."
Nodding her head, Demi directed the chair forward slowly. "All we need is a few minutes." She said, her voice quiet, suddenly dull and hollow, her hands white around the handles of the chair. "Thank you."
Letting the door swing open, the policewoman stepped back, letting the blonde woman and her dark-haired husband move into the dull room, stepping in, unobtrusively behind them and shutting the door over quietly.
* * *
Watching the bright beam around the door widen into a white rectangle of light, he squinted at the oddly-shaped silhouettes, the dark images slowly coming into focus, recognition immediately sparking in his mind.
"You came." A broken whisper, he spoke through dry lips. His eyes sank closed in shame, in pain, in every other emotion he felt battering through his system, through his heart and mind, but not through his body.
"How could we not?" Demi moved to the side of the bed and sat down, taking one limp hand between hers, eyes full of pity and apology. "How are you feeling?" He opened his eyes to see her smiling gently down at him, in spite of everything.
(Like I want to rip your head off, you bitch!)
"I'm okay." Ronan ignored the little voice that was rabbiting away in his mind. Without the need to control his useless body, he could overpower Macavity mentally, leaving the villain's spirit trapped. "No feeling, but that's a good thing."
(Yeah, you bastard. I'm stuck in here and you're being all nice to that sex-crazed slut! Let me out! I want to kill her!)
/Not a chance in hell, Macavity./
(Come on! You know you want control. Power.)
/Just cos you're a randy pervert? I think not./ He could feel the dark presence of the master criminal battling against his will power, letting his eyes close again, as he fought it. /Is that the best that you've got?/
He could sense black, furious eyes glaring at him. (You think you're so tough! Some day, you'll let your guard down and that's when I'll be back and in control! You can't fight me forever and you know it!)
"Ronan?"
"Give me a minute, Demi." Gritting his teeth, he focused on the conflict gong on within him, his eyes squeezed shut. /You know, I don't give a damn. If you did ever get back in control, it wouldn't do you any good. This body is paralysed, completely. Didn't you wonder why I didn't get up and walk out of here?/
(What?)
/For a genius, you're not very smart./ He let his mental laughter ring out, delighting in tormenting the spirit of the feline within him. /She stabbed you in the back of the neck, remember...just happened that she caught between the vertebrae./
(Which means?)
/This body of mine is useless from the neck down./ Ronan felt like crowing in silent triumph, a small smile flickering on his lips. He knew he was never going to walk again, but in the moments after he had been stabbed, he had felt the dark spirit clamouring to either break out of the body or make it move again. Instead, he had trapped it, holding it to the body, but making certain he still had the control.
Macavity fell silent, his seething fury bubbling through Ronan's mind. (You didn't think to tell me this any time in the last two weeks?)
/What's the fun in that?/ Ronan stifled a chuckle. /Seeing you try to make the body work properly and not realising why it wouldn't...God, it was too funny an opportunity to pass up! You did look kind of stupid./
Again, Macavity seemed surprised into silence.
"Are you all right, buddy?" Menke nudged Ronan's arm with his plaster-cased left arm, concern written on the younger man's face.
Glancing at the dark-haired dancer from beneath half-closed lids, Ronan grimaced. "He's still in here." He whispered, exhaling a breath and allowing himself a small, confident smile. "And he's not happy that I'm controlling him now."
(You don't say!)
/Now you know how it feels, darlin'./
(Don't you dare call me that!)
Ronan smirked inwardly. /Why, darlin'? Don't you like it, darlin'? Does it annoy you as much as it used to annoy me, darlin'?/
(Fine. Be like that.)
Demi looked from Ronan to her husband. "Ronan," The red haired man raised his eyes to her. "Could...could we talk to Macavity?" He wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Don't worry. We only want to gloat."
(Bitch! Bitchbitchbitchbitch!)
Ronan gnawed on his lip. "Give me a moment to reason with him."
* * *
Its all over.
Finally.
Macavity's trapped in a prison none of us could even imagine for him, inside the mind of a good man, with no way to escape.
Twisted poetic justice is a great thing.
Still, I can't help feeling sorry for Ronan, having to deal with the monster who tormented Menke and I for so long for the rest of his life. Although he does seem to be relishing the idea of annoying Macavity and who would blame him.
But that's why we came to see him.
Ronan is always going to be a friend, but we have to face the evil that still hides in him. We have to talk to him civilly and rationally, before we stick our tongues out at him and chant "Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!"
Isn't it a wonder to see that there are still some mature and polite individuals in the world?
I kind of wonder what the policewoman is thinking of us. We've just asked a paralysed man to let us speak to someone else...maybe she thinks he has a split personality or something, which - technically - he does.
It's strange to watch the personality shifting.
It's a visible change, as soon as Macavity is allowed control, his eyes taking a strange gleam on, his lips curving in that horribly familiar sneer that's only held at bay by Ronan - no doubt telling Macavity that he's a useless twat.
Ronan's a great guy, but as I've said, its not him we came to see.
It's Macavity.
See! I can say it without screaming it! Aren't we all impressed by Demeter's waning paranoid schizophrenic tendencies?
* * *
"Well, well, it's the whore and her slut of a husband."
/You said you would behave!/
(I lied.)
"It won't work anymore, Macavity." Demi's words sounded stronger than she would have though possible. "We're still together and you're trapped until you die of old age. There's nothing you can do to hurt us."
/Atta girl, Demi!/
(Stay out of this!)
/My body./ Macavity received a mental uppercut across the mental jaw. /My rules and my manners, okay, darlin'?/
Menke leaned forward in his chair. "You know, Mac, you weren't anything special. Especially not in the bedroom department." His smirk rivalled Macavity's own. "If you had to chain us up to get us to screw you, it doesn't say much for your technique."
Ronan could feel Macavity's astonishment. Obviously he had expected the couple to either be dead or dying, not stronger than ever and more confident in the face of their tormentor. (I don't get it.)
/It's called love, darlin'./
(Shut the hell up! And don't call me that!)
/It's the truth, darlin'./ Ronan taunted. /They are stronger together than anything you could come up with. You could never have beaten them and that's a fact! You're just a big old sore loser, darlin' and now you're stuck with me til your spirit dies!/
"I'm going to get to you, somehow, you see if I don't." Macavity hissed through his teeth, eyes ablaze with impotent fury.
Demi yawned, turned away from him. "That threat just gets so much scarier, every time we hear it, Mac. Come up with a new line and you might at least have some self-respect. At the moment, you're just a sad loser who liked to bully people because he wanted what they had."
"And your point is...?"
Menke arched a scarred eyebrow. "Mac, face it. You made us both look like hells rejects, so who else could we stay with, but each other? Thanks to you, our marriage is probably stronger than ever."
Growling in useless fury, Macavity was dragged back by Ronan, who chuckled. "You've really pissed the darlin' fella off."
(Don't bloody well call me that!)
/Why, me darlin' fella?/
Falling silent, Ronan paused for a moment, then turned his face towards Menke and Demi with a small smile. "I've got a gift for you both as well." He said. "With all the revenue from McCafferty enterprises, the legal side anyway, I have more than enough to cover hospital costs and so on. There's a lot left over, so I want you to have it."
Demi blinked in surprise. "You mean you really were a legal millionaire? In spite of all the underhand stuff?"
"I was." Ronan nodded, the only gesture he really had left. "And I want to give you something to apologise for being a bastard. It would only go to waste...to the government, I mean, if I didn't have someone to take it off my hands. Use it and go and have yourself a flock of rugrats."
Patting Ronan's hand, Menke muttered. "Don't encourage her. She's broody enough as it is!"
The red haired man chuckled, accepting a tight hug from Demi. "You take care." She ran her hand down his cheek gently. "Don't let him get to you."
(So she still think I have power, eh?)
/In your dreams, darlin'./
"You two just get better, okay?" Wishing he could return Demi's hug, Ronan settled for a kiss on the cheek from the beautiful blonde and grateful smile of her wheelchair-bound, dark-haired and bandaged-up husband.
"We will." They acknowledged, before leaving Ronan and Macavity alone once more, a content smile on Ronan's pale features, as he let his eyes sink closed lazily, a soft yawn escaping him.
/That went well./
(I hate you.)
/You picked me, darlin'./ Ronan smirked. /So you're the only one to blame./
And for the first time in days, Macavity fell silent for more than five minutes, sulking somewhere in the recesses of Ronan's mind.
Somewhere he would be for a very long time.
* * *
"So it's over."
Demi nodded, her fingers tangled through her husband's as they slowly walked through the streets that were filled with Saturday afternoon shoppers and tourists, the hustle and bustle of London unchanging.
"Ronan's in a special security hospital." She said. "I got a phone call from William today. He said that the six month rehab has helped and that Ronan no longer seems half as psychotic as he was when they tried to arrest him the first time."
Menke smiled. "I wonder why." He remarked dryly, squeezing her hand.
Pausing at a street vendor, he bought a sprig of lucky heather, turning to pin it on his wife's loose t-shirt. She smiled at him gently, raising a hand to caress his scarred cheek tenderly, his green eyes dark with pleasure.
Looping her arm though his, they started up the busy paved streets, passing the street peformers and easily-impressed tourists. "Have you got them?" She abruptly asked, stopping short, a frown of concern furrowing her brow.
Digging through his pockets, he frowned. Releasing her hand, he dug through his other pockets, a worried look crossing his face, as he looked up at her. "Um...Demi..." She gave him a 'You better not have...' look. He grinned like a naughty schoolboy and pulled the pair of tickets out of his pocket. "Here they are."
"You're an idiot." She smacked him on the chest, golden eyes dancing.
"That's why you love me." He purred, pulling her up close and kissing her softly. Her arms wrapped around him, fingers brushing over the CATS logo on the back of his bomber jacket, as she pulled him closer.
Drawing back, she smirked. "Actually, its because you agreed to go and see Starlight Express with me, but I guess I'll let you off." Running a hand though his semi-regrown hair, she smiled up at him. "We better move, or we'll be late."
"You always spoil my fiendish plans to miss the bleedin' show!" Menke draped an arm around her waist as they walked, occasionally exchanging small smiles and glances.
"Anyone would think you didn't like it." She sighed, in feigned annoyance.
Menke grinned devilishly. "Perish the thought." He said, dropping a light kiss on the tip of her nose. "Just remember its my choice what we do tonight and you can't say no, whether you like it or not."
"After everything we've been through," Demi snuggled closer into his embrace. "I still hate going to shows that had you in them. I mean, how many women want to be reminded that their husbands dressed up like big pussies?"
"If I remember correctly," Menke squeezed her hand. "You loved it."
Hand-in-hand, they walked into the theatre. In spite of everything: life-threatening injuries, months in hospital, mental and physical torture that doctors insisted was called physiotherapy: the couple had still come out smiling.
As they settled in their seats, exchanging innocent looks, they grinned as the overture started up, turning their attention to the 'trains' racing out from various places around the stage, both cheering loudly for Bobo, played by a familiar young actor by the name of Philip Tennant.
Resting her head on Menke shoulder, Demi couldn't help but think that the Demeter-Munkustrap storyline from CATS was much more appealing, as Pearl went with every train in turn, rejecting the one who loved her.
But she wasn't about to admit that to her husband, to give him more ammunition for his next argument about the show.
After all, she half-smiled, he always had his favourites.
* * *
Propping her feet on a familiar spot of junk, Demi felt a shiver of delicious anticipation shoot down her spine, the platform-stage starting its familiar slow revolution in time with the deafening bursts of the overture.
"I forgot how amazing it always sounded." Her companion whispered softly, eyes misted with tears, hand groping for Demi's. "God, I missed this."
The blonde nodded in unspoken acknowledgement, the hairs on the back of her neck rising of their own accord. Forcing herself to slower, deeper breaths, she blinked back her own tears, her smile painfully wide.
Finally, the stage was plunged into darkness, a familiar gold-and-black feline creeping out onto the stage, suspicious, uneasy.
A sweeping headlight made both actress and Demi cringe back instinctively, until both seemed to notice another figure crawling langurously over the boot of the car, striking a dramatic pose, eyes focused in the distance.
Slowly, a person at a time, the stage was covered with felines, but still, the feline on the car remained motionless. Demi had to give credit where credit was due. Philip had definitely been a beautiful and amusing Munkustrap, during Menke's absence, but now, her first time seeing this brand new cast, the latest actor playing Munkustrap made her heart leap in her chest.
Gripping her companion's hand, she drew an agonisingly slow breath, swallowed hard as the silver- and black-striped actor smoothly slid down onto the stage, crawling gracefully forward, his body toned, muscled.
Several feet in front of his wife, Menke raised his head slowly. The spotlights played over his silvery features, his expression noble, proud, almost arrogant, but for the suggestion of a smile pulling his lips upwards.
Six months of pain, of rebuilding his life, of rediscovering his self-confidence. Six months of crying into the night, of waking full of terror, of contemplating the advantages of death over an existance with his memories.
But he had made it back.
He was truly Munkustrap once again.
Giving a thoroughly feline twitch of the head, he aloofly looked down at the audience, finding Demi's brillant golden eyes immediately, alongside Rina's dancing brown ones, the younger of the two giving the thumbs up.
His soul sang with joy and exhiliration, the temptation to smile growing with every second. As he had done so many times before, he lazily stood, raising his arms to shoulder level, his expression one of pure satisfaction as he intoned the words that made him who he was.
"Are you blind when you're born?"
~FIN~