I appreciate the appropriate use of anon reviews.

I also greatly enjoy the reviews people have been kind enough to leave, although I realized only recently I haven't made this particularly well-known. Thanks, everyone!

Now, let's see how Don and Weasel are getting on, shall we...?

Read, smile, and review!

11. Angels from the Ashes

"Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most." – Mark Twain

He was shaking – no, the world was shaking, and he was attached to it somehow, though he could no longer feel how. The darkness pressed in on him, a tangible thing from which there was no escape, no happy interruption, not even when he closed his eyes.

"Don?"

Eyes snapping open, he searched desperately for the source of the voice, his first visitor since Weasel had left him what seemed like an eternity ago. Somewhere in the dark, his gaze locked upon a fold of red fabric as a quiet swish betrayed its position. Not daring to look away for fear of losing this reference, he leaned forward, watching, waiting, and suddenly, there she was, kneeling in front of him, her green eyes bleeding compassion.

"Poor Don," she soothed gently, taking one of his bound hands in hers and stroking it to relax the tension there. "Three hours alone in the dark – and I know how you hate the dark, Donnie – I thought you could use some company."

A relaxed sigh escaped him as she laid her hand on his cheek, savoring the moment of heat in this world of cold; he even allowed himself a contented smile. "Ah, Katherine…"

When he opened his eyes again, he yelped and recoiled from her touch, which was suddenly slippery with blood that Don knew wasn't his. The brunt of her confused look stared back at him from bruise-ringed black eyes. Tucking a strand of blood-matted hair behind her ear with a finger devoid of a fingernail, she pouted lips stained red by more than lipstick.

"What's wrong, Donnie? Can't take what you did to me?"

He tried to escape her eyes, but they were everywhere. "I didn't, I swear, I didn't mean to—"

"I know," whispered Katherine, leaning forward. Don leaned back, avoiding her, but her lips pressed against his, her tongue infiltrating his mouth, which was suddenly filled with blood. It bubbled up from his throat, throwing his head forward, straight through the spectral image of Katherine Lawson, and with a great heave, he vomited. The illusion was shattered, and he was left coughing, heaving, shaking, and once more utterly alone.

"Get out of my head," he hissed to the night. "GET OUT OF MY GODDDAMNED HEAD!"

The only answer was the distant echo of his shout as it went the way of his sanity and was swallowed by the dark. Then, from somewhere in the folds of night, came a suppressed giggle. Gaze combing the dark, he tried to find some brief glimpse of pale skin, but instead, his heart sank as he once more caught a flash of red dress, circling him like a vulture, waiting for him to break…

"I know you're there," called Don, trying to ignore the fast-approaching red dress and its owner. "Why don't we talk?"

Footsteps followed, and yet Don still jumped when the reply came from very close to him. "Oh? And what is it you'd like to talk about, Eppsie?"

He cleared his throat of bile to better speak. "Katherine."

"In that case…" A quiet click, and Don was momentarily blinded by the lights that quite suddenly buzzed to life. No more than five feet in front of him knelt Weasel, clearly back to his normal creepy self, though there was a light of curiosity in his eyes. Absentmindedly, he fished his switch from his pocket and flipped it open.

"I'm all ears, Eppsie."

Don took a ragged breath, focusing entirely on Weasel's pale, would-be-handsome face instead of the figure he could now make out, circling, ever circling…

"What we – what I did to Katherine Lawson was unforgivable," he started, and Weasel agreed with a nod. His eyes following the prowling woman, he aimed his words more at her than Weasel. "She's dead. I killed her."

For a split second, he thought he saw Weasel flinch at the bluntness of his words, but he just motioned for Don to continue, and Don obeyed.

"So how," he ventured cautiously, "is that different from what you're doing now?"

"You deserve it," spat Weasel. "My—" He seemed to catch himself, re-starting the sentence. "Katherine didn't. That's the difference, Eppsie."

"Not in the government's eyes," Don countered, trying to fill his head with all the negotiation tactics he'd been taught at Quantico instead of the grim smile of Katherine's lips and she paced. "Now, you've made some mistakes, but if you walk out of here with me, you've got some options."

Snorting, Weasel stared down the edge of the knife at him. "What? Can I select exactly which room I'll get on death row? I'm sorry if I'm not kneeling at your people's feet and asking for forgiveness, Eppsie."

His eyes flicked back and forth between Weasel and Katherine. "I'm not gonna lie to you, buddy, you don't have much to work with."

"Six bodies have a price tag?" exclaimed Weasel, faking shock. "I never would have guessed."

As Katherine approached, Don's patience failed. "Yeah, well, you make it seven, I guarantee they'll stick a needle in your arm so fast—"

"Oh, yes, Eppsie?" Weasel said, eyebrows raised. Digging in his sweatshirt pocket, he produced a very familiar pointy cylinder, a shape Don had come to fear. "Let me tell you how it is, Eppsie. If you keep talking diplomacy, I stick a needle in your arm, and I make it seven. Clear?"

That shut him up. With a smug grin, Weasel moved off, pocketing the vial that held his power. Don watched him go with unmasked confusion.

"What is it you wanted out of this?" he blurted out suddenly.

Weasel stopped and turned, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

Don shifted, and put more surety in his voice. "What is it you're doing all this for? To torture me? You've done that. I've done that, for fifteen years."

For a moment, Weasel considered him thoughtfully.

"I wanted to hear you say it," he managed finally. "After fifteen years, I wanted to make you remember, to make you confess."

"And you wanted to kill me," finished Don. Weasel gave a brisk nod, and Don looked down. His most recent plan, what he was about to do, was foolish, and probably largely based on the advice the sodium pentothal had to give him, he knew, but he didn't care. After so long in this hellhole, with no sign that anyone was coming to get him, he was willing to try it. Once more, Don Eppes would have to be the strong one; he was getting out of here… even if it was in a body bag.

"Look," he said quietly. "My old friends are dead, and after what you made me say, I don't think my new ones are particularly concerned with what's going to happen to me. I've had this on my conscience for fifteen years, and there are times – oh, there have been many times – where I wanted to do the exact same thing."

Weasel cocked his head to the side. "What are you saying, Eppsie?"

"What I'm saying, Sean," Don said, putting particular stress on the name, "is if you want to kill me, what are you waiting for?"