Title: Chapter 3: Blood in the Water
Fandom: LXG
Summary: Poor Skinner: when it rains, it pours. Blood apparently.
Word Count: Just under 500 words.
Rating: M
Warnings: graphic descriptions of murder and sexual assault.
Disclaimer: I have no claim whatsoever.
AN: sorry for the long delay. I've got tonnes of schoolwork and I'm writing for over six different fandoms. There's a reason I tend to do one-off fics. Plenty off reasons actually. I apologise and I doubt it was worth the wait but here goes.
Blood in the Water
Skinner cleaned up carefully; watching as the water turned blood red before vanishing down the drain, ready to be emptied into the sea when the time was right. Soon he was as clean as a whistle, but still rather disconcerted, as he couldn't remember how the blood got on his hands.
There was no one he could talk to about it either. Well, perhaps Mina but she's no doubt busy with the blonde American. A rather odd coupling but they seem to enjoy the flirting and the fighting, she's could eat him for breakfast but she's being gentle, it actually seems to be going along smoothly for them two. Huh, go figure. But that's not what Skinner's supposed to be pondering.
God, he misses Henry!
Henry would believe him; believe IN him but Skinner breaks off that line of thought as the tears threaten to spill and the knot in his throat almost chokes him. Yet it's hard not to think about him and it's a shock to Skinner to realise how much his world revolved around that one man. He fights to forget his dream yet fights to remember it too.
It comes to him in snippets; snatches; glimpses. Henry's broken body, badly beaten and yet the heart was still beating. Henry was still breathing. He was still alive. Of course, this was just a dream but it felt so real. And Skinner wasn't ready to believe Henry was truly gone forever.
This would be so much easier if he wasn't so tired, if he wasn't still reeling, wasn't still mourning. Off course, he's not really mourning because it's hard to mourn when you're still in denial. And it's also hard to be in denial because Henry's not really dead. Mind you, that's practically what denial is.
Skinner thanks his lucky stars when Tom runs in, states there's an emergency meeting, then rushes off. Skinner throws on his leather jacket and follows him, grateful for something to stop the same thoughts spinning around in his head but reforming to form a conclusion. He's not grateful for long.
"There's trouble in London."
"We just got the transmission a few minutes ago."
"What kind of trouble?"
"A murderer."
"A brutal murderer! 3 prostitutes he killed in one night, raping them before and after he'd killed them. Shredding their breasts as he fucks them from the front; then chokes them and slits their throat whilst fucking them from behind. And the police don't have a clue who it is. Vanished into thin air. No trace of him."
"Are we going to London then?" Skinner asks, cockily stressing his cockney accent and forcing himself to act normal. He can still remember the blood on his hands.