This is the follow-up to "Passive", which diverges from Zarla's "Vargas" continuity after Ch 14 ("Truth"), and continues blithely on as if oblivious of everything that followed.

As ever, apologies to Jhonen Vasquez for the misappropriation of Johnny C. and Edgar Vargas. And many thanks to Zarla for allowing me to toy with Scriabin.


RESET
by rueyeet

Scriabin's patience was wearing thin.

It wasn't as if he was unaccustomed to the feeling, but this was a bit much, even for him. As entertaining as it was to have complete control of Edgar's physical form, the novelty was beginning to wear off.

After the miraculous recovery from Johnny's dual attempts at tenderest murder had forced him to take charge, Scriabin had amused himself for several months by doing any number of things that Edgar would never do. He had talked back to Edgar's boss, begun a campaign to undermine the poor man's authority with well-placed comments to his subordinates, and flouted his intellectual superiority over Edgar's co-workers at the water cooler. He had cut people off in traffic and flagrantly disregarded the speed limit at every opportunity. He'd flirted devilishly with anyone that caught his eye, at one point carrying on no fewer than three affairs at once. He'd grown out his hair, updated Edgar's bland wardrobe, and had his ear pierced. Anyone who had known Edgar--even peripherally--wondered at the change, seeing him in a whole new light.

Even better, he'd found that the immunity to consequences that Johnny had formerly enjoyed worked to his advantage. It was as if whatever authority sustained the waste-lock system was just as happy if their charges collected the wretched detritus of humanity by actively creating it as they were when someone simply acted as a passive channel. Scriabin found that both very interesting, and quite agreeable.

Through it all, Edgar had remained obstinately, frustratingly silent.

Scriabin knew he was still in there somewhere, nursing the hurt inflicted by the dissolution of his self-destructive relationship even as he hid from it. But nothing Scriabin did seemed to break through Edgar's miserable isolation. He wasn't even sure Edgar was aware of his actions. All Scriabin knew was that it irritated him to no end.

More than that, though, he knew that this wasn't really what he wanted. Sealed off within that tiny corner of his own mind, Edgar was safe, protected from anything Scriabin could do to reach him. It was an unoriginal, but highly effective, method of self-preservation. Scriabin, who prided himself on seeing through Edgar's many self-deceptions, had to admit to himself that possession of Edgar's body wasn't the same thing at all as having Edgar himself.

It was time to up the ante. He'd miss being able to act freely, miss being more than an observer, but it couldn't be helped for now. Someday, he'd have his victory, and there would be time enough to indulge himself then.

Scriabin had, most sensibly in his opinion, stayed well away from Johnny; the evening news was proof enough that the killings continued unabated. Some risk would be involved, to be sure, but Edgar could not be allowed to continue to evade him. Having made up his mind to force the issue, he put his plan into action immediately. He hopped into Edgar's car, drove to Johnny's house, and knocked smartly on the door.

After a minute or two, the door opened. Scriabin watched as Johnny's expression changed from wary annoyance to wide-eyed astonishment. A past master at hiding his true motivations, Scriabin stifled his laughter at how utterly priceless the look on Johnny's face was as he choked out, "Edgar...you...you're...alive!"

Solemnly, Scriabin agreed, "Yeah...it's a long story. Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, still staring, Johnny held the door open for him. Scriabin entered the house, gazing around with every appearance of misty-eyed sentimentality, while taking note of the many places where weapons had been carelessly strewn about. Coming to stand in the center of the room, he turned to face Johnny, who had shut the door and put his back to it, holding tightly to himself as if in defense.

"You look...different," said Johnny weakly, not meeting his eyes. "Your clothes, they're...your hair's longer."

"It's been awhile." Scriabin kept his voice quiet, level. It wouldn't do to tip his hand too soon.

"But how? You died! I was there, I..." Johnny looked up, guilt and hurt vying in his eyes. "I killed you. I made sure! How is this possible?"

"Do you remember when you asked me to kill you, that time? You said you didn't think you could die. I don't think I can either, anymore."

There was a pause as the implications of that sunk in. Stricken, Johnny asked, "Are you sure?"

Scriabin held back the sarcasm with some effort. "Pretty sure, yes."

Johnny pushed off from the door, pacing agitatedly around the room. "God...you're probably right. Do you think that it's because of the waste lock thing? That whoever they pile their shit onto can't even fucking slit their wrists to get out of it? That once you're stuck with it, they don't let you go until you're too far gone for it to even work anymore? Who came up with this sick joke of a system, why--"

"Well, it is the most logical explanation," Scriabin said, cutting into what promised to become another fine rant on the myriad evils of the world. He couldn't quite keep the irony from his tone, but Johnny didn't seem to notice. He stopped in front of Scriabin, arms crossed again.

"Why did you come back?" His voice was sharp with pain.

A dozen comebacks to that rose easily to Scriabin's mind. Because I'm an idiot? A doormat? A wall? Because I have no sense of self-preservation? Hey, I liked dying so much I thought I'd try it again! Luckily, the time it took to get himself under control was no longer than the time it usually took Edgar to choose his words. "Where else would I go?" He shrugged, and took a single step towards Johnny. "You're the only one who ever cared whether I was dead or alive."

Johnny backed up a step, his tone turning defensive. "Why now? If you were going to come back, why wait?"

"I...didn't know how you'd take my being alive. Whether that would ruin your...memory of me." Scriabin took another step forward, holding out his hands. "But, Nny, you're all I have. I...I missed you." He only just managed not to choke on the words.

"You missed me. You missed me?" Johnny looked at him disbelievingly, but there was longing there too. "I've hurt you, I've always hurt you...I killed you, Edgar--"

"Yes, for perfection. You thought you knew when that moment was, but you were wrong..." Scriabin moved closer, holding Johnny's gaze with his own, his outstretched hands not quite touching him. He let his voice become low and intense. "Nny. You can't kill me, now. But I'm here; I'm here for you. Do you want to know how far perfection can truly go?"

They were only inches apart. Scriabin dared to lay his hands on the thin arms, and breathed, "Do you want me to show you?"

...no. stop. The voice in his head was faint, but it was there. He breathed a private, internal sigh of relief.

Make me! he threw back.

For a split second Johnny hesitated, wavering, then shoved him violently away. "No! Edgar wouldn't say that. Edgar wouldn't be doing this." His eyes flashed, and he lunged forwards, grabbing Scriabin by the front of his coat and shaking him furiously. "Who are you? Where is Edgar?"

"Oh, so you're okay with touching me as long as it's to hurt me, hmmm?" He saw the remark hit home. With one swift gesture, Scriabin brought his own hands up between Johnny's and outwards, breaking his hold.

Johnny backed quickly away, narrowing his eyes in a murderous glare, his hand straying near the wickedly long knife lying on a table. "You're not Edgar," he stated with flat certainty. "Who are you?"

Might as well. "Technically speaking, I am Edgar. But Edgar, overly simplistic thing that he is, likes to call me Scriabin."

"Like the action figure?" Johnny blinked, then tilted his head to the side and eyed him shrewdly. "Then--you're the one he talks to when he's not talking to me."

"Very perceptive. Speaking from experience, are we?"

Johnny ignored that, fixing him with one of those intense stares, and Scriabin judged it prudent to stroll nonchalantly towards where he'd seen the Taser on the floor. The knife abruptly made its appearance in Johnny's hand and was pointed in his direction. "You aren't really Edgar's anymore, though, are you?"

Scriabin paused, surprised. Clearly, he must not discount the intelligence of which Edgar was so fond by focusing on the insanity that Edgar tried so hard to overlook. Crazy, not stupid...He halted as one boot came in contact with black plastic and snorted derisively. "I'm sure he'd love to think so."

With deceptively casual ease, Johnny twirled the knife in his hand. "Is he still there? Or is it just you, now?"

"Oh, he's there. Hasn't said a word since you pulled the plug on him, though." He gave a dramatically mocking sigh. "Poor Edgar. I don't think he took being dumped so well."

"Dumped." The knife stopped spinning in a suddenly white-knuckled hand as the pain reappeared in Johnny's eyes. "God, you're an asshole. How the hell does Edgar put up with you?"

"Badly, I'm afraid. Nevertheless, here I am. Reduced to playing Cyrano to Edgar's Christian, so to speak, and so I ask: What do you care?" In plain view, Scriabin scooped up the Taser from the floor, then clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly back towards Johnny. "He loves you, you know. He really does. What about you? Are you even capable of that?"

Johnny looked away, hugging the knife to himself, and did not reply.

stop it. Don't.

Don't what? Tell him the truth?

"Would you take him back?" Scriabin challenged.

"It's not like that...not like the way you're talking about it." Johnny shook his head vehemently, visibly trembling, and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "Besides...he'd never be able to forgive me."

Scriabin, sensing his advantage, closed in. His voice was hard and cruel. "Why not? He seems to have a thing for assholes. I think he must like the abuse."

Johnny's head snapped up, his eyes mad with hate and guilt and rage, and he leapt snarling for Scriabin, the knife raised. Scriabin dodged the strike and whipped the Taser around, hitting Johnny in the side. He released the button as soon as the knife dropped from nerveless fingers. After all, Johnny was no use to him dead. As the maniac stumbled twitching to the floor, Scriabin threw the Taser away and dove for the knife. Before Johnny could come to, he knelt beside him, hauled him up by the hair, and put the knife to his throat.

Now, Edgar, you and I are going to have a little talk. Scriabin watched Johnny's eyes flutter open. With consciousness came comprehension, and the thin body tensed next to his. "Don't even think about it," Scriabin warned, seeing him look about for something he could use as a weapon. "You're not the protected one anymore, remember?"

What are you doing? Edgar's voice was clearer. Let him go!

"Let me go," Johnny ground out through clenched teeth at the same moment.

"Make me," Scriabin repeated. "God, you two really are the perfect pair. In this corner, we have Edgar 'I'm-not-lonely' Vargas, burying every scrap of true feeling under logic and rationalization and flat-out lies! And over here, we have the notorious Johnny C., so afraid of his emotions that he'd rather tear everything down than even make the attempt! Watch in amazement as both of them see who can go to the greatest lengths to avoid the issue! Watch them in their never-ending waltz around the point--" His tirade was cut short as Johnny twisted in his grip, kicking out wildly. Hands closed around his wrist, trying to force the knife away.

Scriabin let go of Johnny's hair. "Now, now. We wouldn't want to damage poor Edgar, now would we?" Matter-of-factly, he backhanded Johnny across the face, knocking him back to the floor, then pinned him there with a knee to the chest. Slowly, carefully, he leaned in, letting his weight dig the knifepoint into Johnny's skin until blood trickled down from the blade. Johnny hissed in pain and lay still, glaring up at him with eyes slitted in hatred.

No! Why are you doing this? You have control, just like you always wanted, you can do anything you want now! Don't hurt him...leave me alone...

"Oh, so now we come to the truth! It's all about you, isn't it? All along, both of you have just been using each other for your selfish needs! You never really cared in the slightest! Which is, of course, why you're so upset about this now." He shook Johnny slightly. "And you! So in love with your lofty ideal of perfection--did you ever really see Edgar at all? Or was it just 'so long, and thanks for the memories?'"

Johnny's angry gaze faltered, and he shut his eyes against Scriabin's words.

That's not fair, it's not true! Damn you, Scriabin, what do you want?

"All right, here's the deal, and I don't care if either one of you likes it." Scriabin drew a deep breath. He hoped he had read each of them correctly, but Edgar had a distressing habit of surprising him. And Johnny, of course, was chaos incarnate. "Either you stop me, Edgar, or I am going to slit your precious little Nny's throat right here and now, and walk off with your body without a backward glance, and you can just stay there in your warm cocoon of cozy denial and forever hold your peace. Or you can take responsibility for once in your life, and be reunited with your beloved psychopath. And Nny here can admit that nothing in life is perfect, and be willing to deal with things as they come, because you can't martyr yourself for him now. All you have to do--both of you--is admit that you care! Why is that so fucking hard?"

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Scriabin waited with growing frustration. Could he have misjudged them both so completely?

Finally, amazingly, it was Johnny who broke the silence with one quiet word. "Edgar." It was neither a plea, nor a reprimand; neither a cry for mercy, nor a shout of rage. Johnny simply looked straight into his eyes, past Scriabin, and called his name.

Nny, Edgar whispered back, and reached for the knife, answering that call.

There was a second or two of disorientation, and Edgar found himself once more looking out through his own eyes, into Johnny's. He gave a small yelp as he became aware that he was still holding the bloody knife, and threw it far across the room.

"God, I'm sorry, I had no idea he would do that, I had no idea you would be in any danger, Nny, please forgive me..." Edgar knew he was babbling, but he didn't seem to be able to stop. "I wouldn't have come back, I'd never have ruined this for you, I..."

Johnny studied his face very closely before he shook his head, waving away Edgar's explanations. "No. I had already ruined it. It's what I do." He gave a small, sad smile. "...Let me up?"

Edgar jumped slightly as he realized that he still held Johnny pinned to the floor. Getting shakily to his feet, Edgar offered him a hand, and a thrill of surprise ran through him when it was accepted without hesitation. Johnny pulled himself up, ignoring the blood that dribbled down his neck, and did not let go of Edgar's hand. Slowly, he brought both of their hands up between them, clasped palm to palm, as they had been that night in Edgar's room.

They stood like that for a long time.

"Now what?" Edgar wondered at Johnny's apparent calm. His own heart was beating very fast.

"I don't know," Johnny confessed soberly, then that sudden smile reappeared. "There's one thing you can do, though." Edgar looked back at him, perplexed.

Johnny ducked his head in an oddly shy gesture, but his glance was sharp. "Get a haircut."


This story can also be found at Zarla's site--www(dot)ashido(dot)com(slash)igtky--under Fanfics.