Always wanted to try my hand at a songfic. Set to "Passive", from A Perfect Circle's album eMOTIVe.
If you've read "Vargas", you knew Nny would get around to killing Edgar, eventually. This story occurs after Ch. 15 ("Free") of "Vargas" and then my little continuity veers away from there.
Johnny and Edgar appear without the permission, and hopefully without the knowledge, of their original creator, Jhonen Vasquez. Scriabin is Zarla's creation, but I hope neither of them will mind if I borrow him for a bit.
A note about formats: The normal, left-justified italics are Edgar and Scriabin in their never-ending internal conversation. Them's a lot of italics, yep. Originally I had the song lyrics indented, but FFN won't do indents, so they have dashes around them; lyrics in parenthesis are background vocals.
PASSIVE
by rueyeet
--Dead as dead can be.--
Consciousness had returned to him very slowly, through a dark haze in which voices, noises, and an insistent beeping swirled together and made no sense. Eventually, he was able to sort out the sounds, and knew that he was in the hospital. He was unable to open his eyes, or to move, or in fact to feel any physical sensations at all. The nurses chattered to each other as they performed the necessary tasks, but he could not tell when they were touching him. He was both worried by this, and grateful for not having to feel the pain he must certainly otherwise be in; but it gave him nothing to do but listen.
"Is there a living will?" he heard one day.
"No. The only next of kin are out of state, some distant relatives, and they refuse for religious reasons."
"Has it been explained to them that he'll never wake again? That it's only the machines keeping him alive? That brain death is, for all intents and purposes, as dead as you can get?"
"Doesn't matter...their faith doesn't permit it."
"Well, at least he had insurance." A door swung open, and thudded shut again.
--The doctor tells me,
But I just can't believe him;
Ever the optimistic one.--
Edgar didn't feel dead. Not healthy and whole, certainly, but he was still here, wasn't he? He felt some irritation at their callous attitude. Living wills were necessary because sometimes people sometimes did wake up, against all expectations and medical prognosis. And all life was sacred, a gift of God. If he ever did recover, he'd have to thank his relatives for sticking to their values.
Of course, that begged the question of exactly how he had ended up in the Intensive Care Unit to begin with.
Don't tell me you even need to ask.
In his current condition Edgar could not shut his eyes in exasperation, or give a long-suffering groan, so he had to settle for replying. Where have you been? And why couldn't you have stayed there?
Stupid question, Edgar. I'm you, remember? Where you go, I am.
Edgar took a brief moment to wonder how, with the two of them in it, his brain had not managed to register any activity for the doctors. He'd been trapped in his head with Scriabin before, and he still had nightmares about the experience. Being a prisoner in his own body was bad enough, but having to share it with Scriabin was infinitely worse.
--I'm sure of your ability
To become my perfect enemy.--
All right, Edgar said to his invisible companion. What happened, then? And...why can't I see you like I did before?
What happened--Scriabin's tone veered between the usual sarcastic contempt and outright hostility--is that your beloved homicidal maniac finally reached the next level in your relationship, and bludgeoned you to death. But since you didn't actually die this time, you'd still need the visual centers of your brain to process images. However, your skull is currently sporting several major fractures, and there was severe brain damage. You've been here for weeks, now. It sounded like an accusation.
Edgar wasn't taking the bait, however. If it's that bad, then why aren't I dead?
Better to ask, if you're not dead, then why is it that bad?
What?
And you say you're so logical, Scriabin mocked. Let me spell it out for you. Johnny told you he couldn't die. The Devil said that his invisibility, if that's the best thing to call it, came from his status as a waste lock. Which you now are.
Edgar was still nonplussed. Are you saying I can't die either? Even if that's true, so what?
He was unprepared for the viciousness of the reply, even from Scriabin. So what the fucking hell are you DOING here?
--Wake up and face me
Don't play dead--
How is this my fault? Edgar didn't understand. It's not like there's anything I can do about it!
No, there never is, is there? Everything just HAPPENS to you, it's never under YOUR control. Never Edgar's fault, no. Edgar had heard all of that before, of course, but he had never heard Scriabin sound so agitated, almost frantic. Your precious Nny wanted you dead, so here you are! Lying here on life support, perfectly willing to waste away to nothing like a good little martyr!
What do you think I can do about it? Edgar repeated, incredulous. You think I want to be stuck here with you? If there were something I could do about that, you better believe I would!
Don't I just fucking wish, Scriabin breathed in pure hatred. You're not afraid of death, oh no. You're afraid to be ALIVE! You make me sick!
--Because maybe someday I will walk away and say
You disappoint me.
Maybe you're better off this way.--
The sound of the door opening interrupted the argument. Edgar felt a strange small thrill at the familiar sound of oddly-shaped boots that was not, this time, echoed by the flutter of his stomach, or by the quickening of his pulse. The machines continued their monotonous beeping as a chair scraped softly towards the bed.
"Hi." Johnny said softly. "You probably can't hear me, being brain-dead and all, but...well." There was a long, awkward pause.
Don't worry, Scriabin put in nastily. He wouldn't listen to you anyway. He never listens to me.
Shut up. I want to hear this.
Edgar sensed Scriabin readying a retort, but Johnny began talking again. "I really wanted to tell you that this is not how I wanted things to turn out. It was all going to be so perfect...and now you're here. You've not alive but you're not dead and...it's just not the way it was supposed to happen...no one should have to be like this..." Edgar could hear the tears in his words.
Yeah, cry me a fucking river! Scriabin spat.
"The worst of it is..." Johnny's voice caught in sobs that broke his words into fragments. "It's my fault. I called them. Can you believe it? I called 911. Me, of all people! And...and they actually came. I didn't think they would, but they did. It was supposed to be so perfect, and I captured it, I did! And I froze it like that...and then, and then it was just...cold. Not cold like I wanted to be, before. Not...it...it...hurt."
No shit, Sherlock. Couldn't have come to this conclusion any sooner, could you?
Shut UP!
"And then I suddenly remembered what you said about time, and not letting other good things happen, and missing out on things because...and now you're not here, and I'll never know, and it's all my fault..." His voice trailed off, but Edgar could tell he was still crying. "God. I feel so...so utterly stupid."
--Leaning over you here,
Cold and catatonic,
I catch a brief reflection
Of what you could and might have been.--
Johnny drew a shaking breath, obviously trying to regain relative control of himself. "It's too late now to fix it. I know that. I ruined things, like I always do. But...I can at least do this much. For you." Edgar heard a very slight rustling, then the footsteps nearing the head of the bed.
Oh, shit. You skinny little bastard, you are NOT going to... Edgar was surprised to hear Scriabin's fury mingled with cold fear.
And then he heard the steady beeping and the slow puffing of the respirator abruptly cease.
"Goodbye, Edgar," Johnny whispered. After a long moment, Edgar heard those inimitable footsteps moving away for the last time, and heard the door open. The thud of its closing sounded as loud in his ears as the sealing of a tomb.
--It's your right and your ability
To become my perfect enemy.--
The sensation was not physical; Edgar could not feel his heart stop beating, could not feel his lungs refuse to draw breath. Still, his damaged brain knew that something had gone disastrously awry, and he was flooded with a strangely unspecific anxiety. Much more painful was the knowledge that Johnny was gone forever. The tenuous, fragile connection that had held them together for so long was finally broken; Johnny's promise to him was finally fulfilled.
Grief gave way to acceptance as Edgar realized that nothing remained to tie him to this world, and he found that he still had no fear of death. After all, he had already died once.
Wake up, Edgar! Scriabin snarled. You think you're going to Heaven, do you? Guess again! Now, for once in your pointless, wasted life, LISTEN TO ME! Get off your complacent little ass, and LIVE!
--Wake up (why can't you) and face me (come on now)
Don't play dead, because maybe--
I thought you said I couldn't die, Edgar told him absently. He didn't really believe it, anyway. Scriabin did have one point, though--Edgar figured he had about three minutes to beg God's forgiveness and avoid wandering the dingy streets of Hell for the rest of eternity before his oxygen-starved cells made it a moot point.
This is NOT the time to test that theory! Damn it, Edgar! You can stop this!
Ignoring the hated voice, he began to pray. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell...well, that part was certainly true.
No! Stop it! He doesn't hear you! He doesn't care! It's up to you, it's always been up to you, you idiot! Take the power you've been given and USE it!
Edgar ignored him, and continued, putting all his sincerity and faith into the words. ...but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love... It was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the unpleasant sensation that Edgar supposed was his body's last attempt to survive, which was beginning to feel like being pulled in opposite directions between two enormous and immovable forces.
I don't believe this. I just do NOT believe this. You're going to DIE, right now, and you don't even care! You pusillanimous wretch, how COULD you? The scream of fury was now laced with despair.
--Someday I will walk away and say
You disappoint me.
Maybe you're better off this way.--
With effort, Edgar focused past Scriabin's voice, past the growing pain, and finished his prayer. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Almost there. His soul, tethered to his body by unseen bonds even as it tried to flee, felt stretched to the breaking point.
This IS your life, Edgar! Do something! Don't just give up, damn you!
With great satisfaction, Edgar said succinctly, No. And then, with relief, Amen. He felt something give, felt the unbearable tension lessen.
From Scriabin, there was only stunned silence for a long moment, then Edgar heard him say grimly, Fine.
--...maybe you're better off this way.
You're better off this...maybe you're better off!--
Once again, Edgar saw the line of a distant horizon resolve itself out of the darkness of his vision, and he strained towards it. He saw his hand reaching longingly for that faraway sky--and at the same time, felt himself yanked forcibly back. As best he could, he twisted his head back over his shoulder to see what kept him from his goal, and met Scriabin's wrathful glare. Behind him, the black of his trenchcoat attenuated itself into strands that faded back into the impenetrable blackness, an echo of the white bonds Edgar remembered so well.
"Fine." Scriabin said again, his voice hard. "If you won't do anything, then I will. Maybe you're willing to give up on living, to go wherever they send you, but I'm not."
--Wake up (why can't you) and face me (come on now)
Don't play dead, because maybe someday I will walk away and say--
"You didn't have to be lying there in that hospital, you know." Scriabin was speaking very fast, and holding very tightly to him, despite Edgar's struggles. "Remember when Johnny asked you to kill him? And he took who knows how much voltage, and just got up again, right as rain. It isn't just invisibility...you can be invulnerable! They need you as a shit-collector, so the world is not allowed to let you die."
"Then why am I dying? Why won't you let me go?" Edgar kicked backwards, writhing, but he could not break Scriabin's vise-like grip.
"You're dying because you won't let yourself LIVE, Edgar! And you're taking me with you, you selfish bastard! I won't let you do this! You're so happy to hand your life over to your psychopathic lover, to your indifferent God, well, you hand it over to ME! Because I am NOT going to let you drag me down with you!"
--You fucking disappoint me!
Maybe you're better off this way!--
"He was not my lover! He killed me, it's over, there's nothing...Now let me GO!"
"No!" Scriabin hissed in his ear. "Give it to me!"
--Go ahead and play dead (go)
I know that you can hear this (go)
Go ahead and play dead (go)--
In a haze of desperation and anger, Edgar tried to fight, tried to claw his way forwards towards the angels and the clouds, away from the darkness that led back to the world, to life. There was nothing for him there, nothing he wanted. There never had been anything he wanted. Except for a little while, and now that was gone, too. There was only one thing left, and that was right in front of him. What did Scriabin want from him, anyway?
"Give it up, Edgar! You always give up, why can't you give up now! Your own fucking God damn you, you are NOT dying on me!"
--Why can't you turn and face me (wake up)
Why can't you turn and face me (wake up)
Why can't you turn and face me (wake up)--
Clinging to him tenaciously, Scriabin dragged Edgar backwards, inch by inch, both of them panting with exertion. Anguished, Edgar watched the horizon fade, dimming slowly away. Why couldn't Scriabin understand? There was nothing he wanted back there, he was tired of all of it, he wanted nothing, he wanted...he wanted...nothing.
He was just so tired. He wanted nothing, wanted it with all his being.
He let go, closed his eyes, and allowed the blackness to claim him.
--Why can't you turn and face me? (...you!)
You fucking disappoint me!--
When the nurse came into the room a while later to check on him and take care of the usual necessities, she was surprised to find the supposedly brain-dead patient sitting up in bed, glaring at his own hands as if they offended him. The life-support machines were silent. "Oh! You're...you're awake!"
He looked up, and smiled strangely at her. "Yes. Finally."
As the nurse left the room, calling excitedly to the doctors to come see the miraculous recovery, Scriabin scowled. In his head there was nothing but stubborn silence.
--Passive aggressive bullshit
Passive aggressive bullshit...--
This story can also be found at Zarla's site--www(dot)ashido(dot)com(slash)igtky--under Fanfics.
