I got just a bit masochistic when writing this... and almost ended up starving myself for no reason other than I couldn't keep the food down, so if this scares the s-- out of some of you, blame my spontaneous acts of sadism/masochism

This was just past 7 pages when I was done so I hope it makes up for some of the wait. School is hell and I have no time.. even though I just had thanksgiving break, but as I said. Writer's block should be equivalent to genocide.

There are three little lines at the end in italics, and they're from the song 'Breath into me' by Red (I think? I dunno for sure) And I was listening to that while writing the end... but I just realized, it's HARD to keep Link in character! Usually I just write him little short parts, but this time, he's gotten a bigger part.

And all the girls out there (and more unfortunate boys who witnessed it) all know about those days when you just get ticked off, right? Nina's having that day.

I probably went through mood swings when writing this. First I'm sadi/maso like Allen, then I get like Link and end up being all nerrg-philosophical and then I'm Nina (no explanation needed), back to Link and then, Allen again... and I do bite things when I was angry. I have teeth marks on my notebooks.

Brownie points for who can guess what happens next chapter, even though part of it is pretty obvious, but here's a hint for where the brownies come from: One of our old buddies (not much of a buddy, really) returns. They've already appeared in this fic, too.

Disclaimer: I don't own Breath Into Me, -man, and the filing-teeth-into-points thing belongs to some little Irish lady gangster from NewYork in the 1900-somethings.... no joke, she hurt people with them.

His breathing was the first thing to break when he woke. A startled, choked, high gasp ripping itself free from his throat as he plunged into consciousness. Like jumping into freezing ice water as he realized so very suddenly that he was alive and awake. Breathing, heart pumping again.

Heart pumping ice through his veins. The horrible cold within him seemed to move through his thin frame, coarsing past his heart and lungs, detouring through his hands and feet and head, running back to his middle and sinking into his very soul.

Within a moment of his breath, his eyes snapped open, wide and scared. They searched frantically the moment he was able to peel the thin skin off the silver, slowly whitening orbs. Blurs of color passing over them as though they were muddy blobs. They scanned nowhere, flinging themselves to every shadow and corner, searching for something only he could see. Only he could comprehend.

He jerked, his fingers balling into fists and slackening into hands like spiders again. His legs twitched, throat clenching on his breath, withering in pain and cold, still flickering his eyes open and closed again.

Open and closed.

Out and in.

All at once it was a horrid pain and in another moment it was calm and peaceful, only the after affects before his heart pumped the cold out again and it washed though him again in a glorious wave of frigid blood. Frozen blood. Red ice shards ran through his veins, piercing the walls at every sharp turn and random moment.

It's nothing, it's nothing!

He jerked again, his shoulders clutching to his sides and hands flying up to his chest, clutching over his heart and lungs.

It's okay, I'm fine! It was a dream!

His already shattered breath was chopped up more, into a rapid gasp for air. Any air. Whatever there was out there, he needed it. His lungs weren't there. Just an empty space for air to refuse. He jerked again. Less violently. Quivering. Shaking in that bed.

It was a dream... A dream, I'm okay... I'm alive.

In a sudden deep breath, his lungs—returning to his chest in a great burst of throbbing—filling once again. He hurt, but nowhere near as much as he had only several moments ago.

But oh God... he hurt....

His shoulder was blaring in pain, the heavy smell of anesthesia, pain killers, heavy medication wafting around him. Why did it still hurt so much? Weren't his nerves supposed to be numb? Had the effects worn off so quickly? The sweet, sticky, puke-like smell of the medicine hung in the hair like some sort of omen of doom, along with another intoxicating smell.

Like copper, iron, almost.

His brain tried to delete the word from his language. He didn't want to recognize it. But whatever sort of bitch fate was, she was having none of that. She wouldn't let him be free from the knowledge of what that smell was just yet.

His head moved stiffly, rolling over to its side, pressing down on something that stung painfully in his cheek. Another bandage.

...scythe slid into the floor, shaving off part of his cheek

He swallowed painfully, a lump like a second adam's apple lodged in his throat. His neck craned and his cheek stung as it was rubbed against the sheets as he tried to look down at his left shoulder. Allen wasn't quite sure how large his eyes were at the time, but they seemed to refuse to focus on where he wanted them to go. He was avoiding looking.

They had practically tied his shoulder onto him. The long wrap of cloth clung across his chest and arm, binding his shoulder to his collar bone like they hoped it would stretch out its skin and bind onto him once more. The cloth had been dyed red, or pink in places, by bleeding that must have refused to stop. It was wet, patches glistening and some places the blood being diluted by excess amounts of goze wrap and... vinegar? The sour smell broke through the others as soon as Allen searched for it, almost a relief from the other muffling smells.

Almost a relief... sourness? Bitterness? A relief? Oh God...

He had really fucked himself up this time! He almost laughed.. he did laugh, the lump in his throat pounding painfully like it was trying to get out of his skin.

He sounded horrible, his laugh tainted— laughing tainted— with the sick masochism that suddenly washed over him.

The sounds weren't even coming out of his throat! It was like he was convulsing all over, his body shaking rapidly, a massive seasure almost, but not. Why the hell was he laughing? Laughing?Of all the fucked up things he had ever done, this had to be— had to be—

...what the hell? He didn't even know what it was, or why he was laughing when he had just killed a man God knows how many hours, or maybe even days ago! With as much as he had been sleeping lately, with all the nightmares he had been getting, he was sure for a fact that he had been out for... for... God knows how long he had been out.

He stopped laughing, shaking, convulsing, whatever a person was to call it. His heart was quivering in his chest, beating faster and harder than he had heard it beat in a long time. He hadn't even lifted his head from the pillow yet, in whatever timespan had passed since he awoke. He couldn't even begin to describe how horrible he felt at the moment, his limbs aching and his mind dangling. Roped back into his grasp, but still dangling by a thread.

He wasn't sure what to make of it when he found himself reviewing the murder in his mind without even thinking anything of it. State of shock maybe? Or perhaps, he was simply irrelevant now? Wait... irrelevant was the wrong word, but it fit just the same. It fit perfectly for him. No matter what he did now, it wouldn't make any difference at all.

It was absolutely hilarious! Him, Allen Walker, preaching so fucking often about saving people and doing the right thing! He was a fucking murderer! A psycho, that's what. Psycho, psychotic, crazy man, he didn't care what they called him now. Whatever they wanted to call him. Anything, anything at all!

What would it be regularly now? Maybe several profanities that wouldn't be but so out of place? Could they possibly have enough creativity in them to think up some god-awful name that actually stung a bit? Oh, that would be absolutely rich if they did. Rich. Completely unthinkable from what he could see.

He was still shaking, more of shivering though, as footsteps broke through his masochistic daze and came closer to his bed. Allen realized his eyes were still partly opened and that she, or he, would realize he was awake. Allen really couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. He really, honestly couldn't care if whoever it happened to be was carrying a scalpel with the full intention of driving it through his head.

Maybe he might even enjoy being skewered.

As long as it wasn't in his eyes. That one he would pass.

"You're awake," Allen didn't exactly see his face, though he didn't really need to. He didn't even really need to think before the man's name appeared in his mind.

Allen remained silent but his body still shivered as he turned turned his head, looking away. Hiding the insane smile. "You don't want to deal with anyone right now?" Link asked, in what sounded like a sigh. Allen closed his eyes, which wasn't very difficult, unlike opening them had been. They were still heavy, and tired.

Link sat on the bed, the matress bending into a valley under his weight. "Are you going to be like this a while?" He asked. Allen gave no reply. He didn't trust himself enough to. Listening to something other than his warping thoughts seemed to be calming his insania. The smile was slowly leaving him, his jaw muscles feeling tired and stretched, his body beginning to ache again next to the comfortable sheets.

"If you're not even paying attention, I might as well stop talking, so at least make a movement or something..." Allen pushed his back up against the warmth of Link on his bed. Keep talking. His breathing shallowed, no longer gasping for deep breaths. Just keep talking. A tight, warm hand rested on his left wrist, careful to not disturb his shoulder. "..Not everyone here... wants to see you do things like that, so..." Link paused, as though the words had suddenly become very difficult. "...Don't get that idea, I mean... Just..." He sighed and gave Allen's wrist a small squeeze, trying to emphasize the words he was having a great deal of difficulty getting out.

"Don't give up on us yet," He finished. "Central's put you through a lot of shit, and..." The grip tightened just enough to make his hand hurt a bit, but nothing more than that. "...just... right," he released his grip. "Don't give up on humans," With that the warmth was sucked away and the valley lifted. Footsteps in heeled black boots clicked across the floor.

Leaving Allen alone in the infirmary again.

'Don't give up on humans.'

The temporary insania he had slipped into was gone, no trace to call upon it and truthfully he had no wish to. Link had come and dumped a bucket of cold water on him.

'Don't get that idea.'

He had had a dream while he was out cold. A bad dream that could easily happen if he kept going down. If people asked him to kill again.

'Don't get that idea.'

"Link, you gave me it."

000

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Link asked as Nina dressed yet another patient's wound. His spar with several enraged civilians had given him a decent blow to the head and he was currently lying unconscious on the bed with a good chance of a minor concussion. Nina frowned as she wound the bandages over the thick mass of hair and the patches she'd had to shave away to get to the no-longer bleeding wound. He would not be a happy man when he woke up.

"Allen?" She asked. "No, he's going to be perfectly fine, happy, dandy, spiffy and whatever the hell else those british people say!" Link shrunk back. Nina was not in a good mood. "I don't really know, I'm not british, dammit!" She gave a strong tug on the bandages that made the man jerk, even when unconscious. "There's absolutely no fucking way that he'll want to die after this! Nooo, there's no chance of him feeling guilty or angry or even more self-destructive then he might have already been!"

Link became terrified as she ranted on. Mind, he may have been a Crow, but he knew better than to upset a lady and he knew much better than to do something like make a woman who was in charge of his health to be angry at him.

"What were those idiots thinking? It wasn't as if they would be able to control him better now that he has it in his head they're going to make him kill people— which he obviously didn't want to do!" She tied the knot on the white bind forcefully and lay the man back down much quicker than she would usually have done, marching over to the medicine cabinet and almost wretching it off its hinges.

"I mean, it's not as if he's in psychological turmoil already, he only has a second person inside him who might kill him at any moment, people all around him who he thinks are out to kill him, no contact from his friends for the past three months and— and— AARGH!" She pulled her hands away from the medicine and ran them forcefully through her hair. Then she seemed to remember Link was there.

She turned on her heel and glared at him. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hangovercure," Link squeaked out as loud as he could through the blazing fires of hell that was the gaze from Nina's eyes. She reached in with a practiced hand, not even looking away from Link and pulled it out with a bottle of liquid and threw it at him. Not tossing, throwing.

"TELL THAT DAMN MAN TO STOP DRINKING, TOO!"

Link caught it and ran.

Right back into the infirmary were Allen was after talking with Levirrier for not even five minutes.

A guard had been sent to tell Allen of his late-Master's demise.

A man Link had seen before in passing stood beside Allen's bed, where the boy had somehow sat up, despite the supposed pain he had been in when Link had been there only several minutes prior. He wasn't anything other than a footsoldier, probably picked at random by Fye, the secretary.

He handed Allen something that looked like a letter, not the real letter, surely, before quickly turning and leaving in what much have been supposed to be calmly, but it was a horrible failure of an act and he wasn't looking where he was going. Not that Link was either.

They collided halfway across the room. Link's head hit the floor painfully, the braid of his blonde hair not helping much at all, though it took a bit of the impact. He groaned when he sat up. The footsoldier sprang up much quicker and apologized, realizing he had bumped into a Crow, not just another soldier.

And then he ran away before Link could even get to his feet. Link couldn't blame him, being the barer of bad news to a boy who was only recently forced to be a killer.

Who killed with instinct.

And by the time he had been able to look up, he really might have just run out of the room also. He might as well have not come in anyway.

"Link, go away," The shape on the bed hissed. Link blinked and stood where he was. "Go away," Allen repeated. He was bent over the letter, gripping it and crinkling it in his trembling hands. Link recognized the heavy emotion that hung in the air within a ten meter radius of Allen.

This is how it looks when I am standing on the edge.

Not sorrow, not guilt. There was no hint of relief or calmness. No lusted revenge or any of the emotions that you would have expected from Allen. It was completely raw, not padded or coddled or bottled up by the caps and faces Link had seem Allen wear back in the Order.

This is how I break apart when I finally hit the ground.

The boy twitched when he noticed that Link was still there, in the room. He turned slowly, looking in Link's direction. There was still blood on him, his bangs hadn't been washed in months and plastered themselves onto his face in tangles. Bandages were on his face, some peeling off from him rubbing against the sheets, but what got Link was Allen's eyes.

They were pale white and glaring ice at him, damning him to the seventh shade of hell.

This is how I disappear when I throw myself away.

"LEAVE!" He yelled.

Link opened his mouth stupidly, backing up slowly from where he stood. Towards the door. Slowly at first, then he turned quickly and did what the guard had done.

He ran.

000

All Allen saw was bright, unholy, ungodly red. He heard the violin strings in his head, squeaking and jeering in disharmony, the vocalists screaming in his ears. A thousand needles prickled over his skin which crawled like a living, breathing thing.

Anything near him, he wanted gone. He wanted to rip the bed and the curtains and the door and rampage around the world. He wanted to hurt something. Anything. The anger in him swelled like a huge balloon in his chest, expanding and rising with his body heat, about to burst at any moment and take his carefully picked apart heart with it.

Well what was wrong with that?

He bit his left arm, biting down as hard as he could. He drew the black substance that acted as blood in that arm. The horrible jolts of pain riding up to his shoulder and blazing within him with a golden fury. He crushed the letter onto the bed and beat at it with his right arm as hard and fast as he could.

How was it even a letter? IT WAS BARELY A SCENTENCE!

Walker— I regret to inform you that Cross Marian has been murdered

How— why? Who the fuck wrote that letter? He would mangle the bastard! He didn't care anymore!

His arm burst into the white flames and long cloak that had killed a man not twelve hours before, the long talons still stained with the slight tinge of red on his once white and gray perfection, and he drove it into the note.

That bastard!

Demon!

He sold him to Central for what? A chance to run away? To fake his own death? To pretend to die? He couldn't be murdered so easily, he couldn't die before Allen killed him! That wasn't fair!

He twisted his talons into the bed, ripping apart the note and springs in the matress, the blanket shredding before his eyes. His thumb sliced too close to his right arm and blood was added to the mix, the white sheets slowly turning bright pink with him.

They thought he was too weak, to injured, too unstable to invoke or think straight.

The smile came back. That insane, masochistic smile that stretched his mouth so wide his face felt like it was going to stretch in half. Rip in half. Split. All he needed was a row of sharp teeth to go with it, but he would have to go without those. Maybe when he finally got out he would file his teeth into points. He wouldn't need knives then. No one would kick him in the mouth again when he was down and struggling, and no one would hit him when he was hurt or injured. No one, ever again.

A startling clarity sliced through the haze of anger and red, a simple thought that made everything clear. Made him know what he had to do.

He jumped to his feet and bolted to the door.

Open your mouth and close your eyes, then scream til dawn for a big suprise.