Author's Chapter Notes:
This part contains one sided slash, violence, crude language, and hints of torture.
Disclaimer: Property of DC Comics, not mine, blah blah.
There's one thing about it… at night, it's miserably cold, but you can see for miles in every direction.
There's maybe not a single place on Earth where you can see more stars than you can out here. You can learn to ignore the cold, but never the view. Every night is this kind of ecstatic agony, past the point of being tired, shivering with cold and exhaustion, stomach gnawing at itself, I want nothing more than to fall asleep, but I can't take my eyes off the sky. I'm not sure I even want to. It's an endless sea, a thousand pin points of light, like candles on the water in a photo I took in a place called Kyoto, but so cold and distant. It's beautiful but cruel, like a roomful of jewels held before a beggar, so clear but completely unreachable. Something of such inestimable value you'd give your life just to lay your hands on it once.
Beautiful and cruel… I've known people like that.
The night is quiet. I can still hear a couple of the boys whispering to each other, not wound down enough to rest, but mindful of those already under. Them I can hear snoring in the cold, dry air. The nine of them are about a hundred feet away, clustered together to take advantage of each other's body heat. It's colder to sleep alone, but it gives me space to think over the day, gives me the time I need to process and file away the occurrences, discard the useless information.
"It'd be a lot warmer on the pile," he says softly, breaking the quiet. I hadn't seen him approach, not a shadow of movement, hadn't heard his boots crunching over the sand and the gravel, even though I can hear it move beneath me as I sit up a little.
"It's definitely a three dog night," I say, by way of reply, "but you're not on it either."
"I don't sleep much," he says, still quiet, even though the others are too far away to hear, "Never have. Not the whole night through anyway..."
"Yeah, well, no one's likely to slit your throat out here." I smirk. "Don't look so surprised. You're not the only insomniac. Army's full of them. Too many fuckers hard up for a fight, too paranoid to fall asleep."
"I sup-pose," he says with a laugh. I like the way he says it, with two clear syllables just like the Japanese, another added onto the end just to make the word one of his own… and I like his laugh. It's a little unhinged, sometimes barely more than a giggle (he giggles), like there's a joke that no one gets but him.
I'd love it if he'd just let me in on the punch line.
"So, what are you one of the sleepless ones?"
"Nah," I shake my head. "I'll sleep like a rock once I get tired enough."
"Tired enough?" An eyebrow arches wryly, and I can see him slide his tongue in front of his teeth to feel the scar on his bottom lip. He's not conscious of the movement; I know this because I've seen him do it thousands of times.
"I'm plenty tired. I got the shakes," I hold out a hand in example. I'm trembling like a leaf, heart thudding like it's considering giving out. "Been running so hard all day I can't turn it off yet is all. Even my second wind's running on fumes."
"Alright, alright!" he laughs, "I get it. You've been rode hard and put away wet."
"I wish," I quip, and we both laugh. "What about you, you got somebody with a yellow ribbon back home?" He shakes his head, corners of his mouth quirking down.
"You?"
"Nah," I give a shake of my own, "Too young to settle down. Don't really trust nobody to wait for me."
"Come on, plenty of girls—"
"Yeah, plenty of 'em, but just cause they're looking at me doesn't mean I'm looking back. Man's gotta have standards."
"And they don't meet 'em?"" He sounds amused… a little too amused.
"Not most of them… Hey, you try and tell me beggars can't be choosers and you better hope you don't fall asleep tonight."
"Am I that transparent?" his voice deepens into incredulity.
"You motherfucker!" I yell.
Yeah, I really like that laugh of his.
"Will you two girls shut the hell up?" Brandon shouts, then I hear thuds as everyone who's awake enough to get a punch in does so. Mr. Hamptons grunts in pain. "Ow! Jesus! It's not my fault!"
We both laugh, half-choking on it now, but he grins at me, holds up a finger to his lips.
"You still awake?" he whispers.
"I'm looking right at you, dumbass."
He rolls his eyes, but I'm as familiar with the whites as I am the irises these days. "C'mon… Lemme show you something."
There's not meant to be any room for questions, and I've got no choice but to scramble out of my mummy, and trip after him. I hate how fast that fucker moves, especially when I can't see where the hell I'm going, especially when I'm slipping and sliding up the side of a mountain that's more scree than it is slope.
"Jack, wait up!" I hiss.
"Better pick up the pace." I've got no idea where his voice is coming from now.
"Whatever happened to no man left behind? Jack?" I clear the ridge quicker than I expected it, damn near sending myself face-first down the other side. I skid down on one knee and my hands until I can get my feet back under me. The moonlight hits over here; I can see each puff of my breath on the air and the sweat on my skin feels like ice as I scan.
No sign of him.
The north and south ends of the ridge fall away into the desert below, but it's lit about as clear as day out there, moon's full, I'd see him on a night like this, no matter how fast. That leaves just the east, the side I've already fallen a quarter of the way down. The next ridge doesn't rise quite as high as this one, about half its size in fact, as flat as this is steep. I could land right on top of it, if only I could breach the gap, but there's a canyon some twenty feet across in between them, looks like maybe a river used to flow here, a long time ago. The shadow falls deep there; I can't see a thing farther than two feet ahead of me.
"Jack!" I hiss into the darkness. My voice echoes back to me, but nothing else, not even the scrabble of sole on stone.
I'd like to know what in the hell he thinks he's playing at.
It's just as hard to make it down this side as it was to climb up the last one. Quicker, but the way a bullet's quicker than drowning: either way, you're still dead. It's hard to keep my feet underneath me, let alone keep my balance or control the speed of my descent as the shards of stone shift and slide against one another.
"If I break my leg, I'm gonna break your scrawny neck, Napier!"
The final four feet to the ground is a sheer drop. Pitch black, I can't see that, but I realize it just about the time I land in a heap and narrowly avoid twisting my ankle up underneath me. Thank god for combat boots…
"Jack!" I try again. I'm starting to get annoyed mainly cause I'm also starting to get worried. What if he isn't playing? What if his clumsy ass fell and cracked his head? He could be laying in the dark bleeding. He could be dead two feet away from me.
"Goddammit, Napier, this ain't funny no more!"
I'm certainly not laughing, cause he's already on me.
There's a forearm at over my throat, and I can hear the wind rushing over something small, something slicing through the air. He's already got me hard around the neck, can't quite draw a breath, I kick out wild with both feet and manage to connect with an outcropping. The canyon narrows down here, its hard enough to send him back into the opposite wall, I hear him contact, feel the thud in my own chest, feel his breath hot on the back of my neck as it forces the air out of him. Too little, too late, his other arm has already finished its work and there's a blade at my throat; I go rigid, still, the edge is whisper-thin, pressed tight enough to bite. I swallow nervously; regret it as the blade sinks the rest of the way in with the movement. I can feel the blood all the way until it disappears into my collar: it feels hot on my chilled skin.
The toe of his boot digs into the hollow of my right knee, and it's either let him tear the ligaments or follow him down. My ankles are pinned under his when we land, his knees on either side of mine. Any movement I make is just gonna give him the leverage he needs to damn near cut my head off with that thing. Resistance would be suicide at this point.
I try to stay relaxed, find it a lot harder than it seems. He laughs real quiet, right in my ear.
"I could kill you, you know, I could make your head flop around like a Pez dispenser, and no one is close enough to even hear you choke."
The arm around my throat moves, slides around my hips. All the blood drains from my face, I think my heart's gonna crack my chest open. His hand slides across my lap, and I can't breathe. God, he's really gonna do it, he's really gonna touch me.
His hand pats my pockets and moves on while I try not to choke on my own disappointment.
"You didn't even bring a weapon."
"I didn't think," I manage to force out.
"Too trusting," he whispers, "Too trusting by far."
He's not behind me anymore. My back feels cold. I still can't breathe. Half a second later, he's in front of me. I know this, cause he flips on a flashlight, holding it under his chin like an overgrown kid at a sleepover, but soon the shadowy grin starts to fade.
"Oh come on, Ben, why the long face? It was just a joke. You've got to be more alert, keep a higher guard is the point… What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
"You cut me," I mutter, after a long moment. Seems as good a thing to say as any.
He pouts, actually fucking pouts.
"You've done worse to yourself shaving, I've seen it! Lighten up, I was just playing with you, no reason to get all bent out of shape. Come ooon, what's wrong?"
Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph help me, he's oblivious. Oh, I fucking hate him.
"What in the hell did you bring me out here for, Jack, just to scare me?" Tease me, more fucking like it.
His face is blank for a moment, before it seems to dawn on him.
"This way," he gestures with the beam of the flashlight, a wave of his hand in the half second of illumination I have to see it.
"Asshole," I mumble.
"I heard that, Ladue. I'll take it out of your ass tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah… Just get on with it, I'd like to get some fucking sleep between now and then."
He's pissed at me now, pissed I didn't get the joke. I'm pissed because that's what happens when you haven't gotten laid in six months, the last time I managed to run into an old friend in Tikrit. Now I'm stuck with him.
And him? I could strangle him.
OOO
He's tired, but that's what happens when you've been awake for twenty-four hours, when you've been sitting in a little room with bright lights and no furniture, just him and him and the chains and him, smug, stupid fuck. He coughs carefully, his ribs are bruised but he has to clear the blood out of his mouth. It's been gushing out of his nose for about thirty minutes now, and he thinks maybe he feels just a little light headed. He feels pain, but he tries to dull his body's perception of it. It gets easier the longer it happens, the worse it gets. All of it starts to blend together, breathing, blinking, being is painful, it fades into the background, a constant of reality like the sun setting and rising.
The stupid fuck is sleeping. Jack hasn't slept, they won't let him, every time he begins to let his head droop, it's kicked upright again by one of his guards.
"Can't a girl get a little beauty sleep," he moans dramatically, and the man just stares at him. He sucks on his teeth, mock-cringes. "Tough crowd."
He spits blood again, shifts, hoping this time he might be able to get his legs out from under him. They went to sleep about twenty minutes ago, and he feels paralyzed.
"Oh, no, haven't we made you comfortable enough?" Oh, god, not him again. "Joe, fix his legs for him."
Jack squeaks out a laugh as the guard kicks him in the side, cracks him in each kneecap with the butt of the rifle. "Oof… that would have worked… a lot better… if I actually could have felt it… Your timing is lousy. My timing is all wrong, by the way, I would have thought you to still be napping." He grins with red teeth at the man. The man smirks.
"It's been eight hours."
That's a blow.
"Well, into another day, are we… let me loose, I've got to make a mark on my calendar, anyone have a pencil? Pencil, pen, grenade? I'm not picky. All equally efficacious. Anyone? No takers?"
"You love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"
"It's a little loopy, I know, but as the only intelligent life on this planet, I kinda feel the need to keep myself compa—" The boot sinks into his stomach, he coughs and laughs, laughs harder when the blood splatters all over his clean uniform. The prick makes a noise of disgust, the world slips out of focus as his head rocks to the side. "This is all… very familiar to me… I knew a guy like you once… you know what I did to him?"
"You just never shut up… you talk, and you talk, but you never say what I wanna hear… I'm getting tired of it… You killed three of my boys last night, you know that? With your little escape attempt."
"Oh, who cares about them, look what they did to my hands! Talk about being hard-headed!" His head rocks the other way. There are little red dots on the wall behind him as it snaps to the side again. It's like art, he thinks, and giggles. "I'm serious, though… I could use some… Neosporin or something… I might develop scars! My knuckles are just ruined… I had such high hopes for a career as a hand model."
The man lets out a scream of frustration, and Jack has no choice but to curl into a ball as the boot slams into him again and again, but he can't guard all of himself, not at once. He has to stop to breathe, and Jack thinks it a little unfair, seeing as he lost the ability long ago.
"This kicking shit is getting really old…" Jack mutters, watching the blood pool in the dust beside his face.
"You're right," he says, "let's try something new… Take his boots off, Joe."
OOO
There is a knock at the door.
A little brunette nurse is behind it, along with her next patient. She almost feels bad as she snarls at her… didn't that unfortunate girl handle her appointments?
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I mean, Dr. Quinzel, its 9:30, and your next appointment is—"
"Canceled! They're all canceled! I am not to be disturbed again today! There is a reason the door was locked!"
She slams the door in her face.
Carrington snorts, after a moment, blinking at the poor girl who was still standing with her nose one centimeter from the door, trembling on the edge of tears. He wrapped a gentle arm around her shoulder, pulling her back. "Doc's been a little… erratic lately… Kinda makes you wonder which one's the crazy in the room right now…"
The brunette sniffs quietly. "I don't need to know which one's the crazy… I just… don't know which one's scarier… You know, I hear she's on meds herself. They shouldn't let people like her become a doctor..."
"Kinda upsets the established order of things, huh? Come on, if we catch it right Marie'll just be making another pot of coffee…"
He had an ambling stride that made it easy to disappear into the background. They never noticed him as they passed him by in the alcove, the diminutive female simpering another snide comment, something to do with bruises on her throat… He'd never seen him lay a hand on her… had never seen him do it… but sometimes the answer lay in the unseen, the unsaid. Nurses gossip, she'd said…
She had certainly been right about that.