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Entry tags:
Fic: Break
Title: Break
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This was originally going to be a cutscene, but then![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rougen prompted me with "only in my mind." So... yeah.
He thought, sometimes, that it would be easy enough to write himself out of her life. If Daniel had been Willoughby’s son, could any of them deny it would have been easier? Didn’t take a genius to see the way the wind was blowing… and 2.5 kids added to the fact she loved him meant it was an easy enough equation.
Riku doesn't look back at her, a strange aura forming around him, quite like shadow. It's as if he is slowly leaking them. The screaming becomes louder and a hell-fire glow peaks out from within his clenched hand. He shoves the desk harshly back with his foot to pin Sloane to the wall. In a fluid motion, Arthur pulls a gun, safety already off and points it at Riku's head. Rage burns fresh in Riku’s eyes, and he raises his hand.
It hurt. God, his head hurt. His body ached. He felt like his very soul was bruised. With the darkness out, it had been easier. It had just been cool and simple; everything had seemed so clear. But now he had to wonder just what kind of story this was, really. And whose.
“Too bad you couldn't pull the trigger, eh my dear? Would have saved yourself quite a hassle.”
Kitathas says coolly, “I am beginning to wish that she had, Mr. Sloane, despite how much Meaghan loves you... it would have saved her, and Lady Amy a lot of pain. Whether the love outweighs the pain, however, is starting to waver in my mind. You choose poor and old weapons, Mr. Sloane, to try to fight your battles with.”
He had felt it, a little, even through the dark. When Meg’s mind went back to their worst times. To the pain. To what he’d done – what he had been capable of doing to her. He’d felt it, more and more, as the darkness was sucked away from him, and even now…
Thomas’ urge to pull a weapon has grown to a point that a blind man could read it in his eyes, but somehow, he only leaves his clenched fists on the table. “You want to convince me, stop hurting her.”
Calmly, though obviously not oblivious to the look in the other man's eyes, Sloane says, “And how would you propose I do that?” She bites her lip, not looking at either of them anymore.
“Normally I would recommend blowing your brains out all over the back wall, but I know that would hurt her as well. You stop making her cry, find a way, and maybe I'll be able to say your name without getting sick. I would love nothing better than to see that, beyond possibly punishing you for previous deeds.”
He wasn’t a monster, like Morpheo or the Omega. Not a hedonist, like the Darkness had once been, perhaps was still. Not a killer, like the WingBlade, or an animal like Willoughby.
No, a small voice inside him whispered. The only word for him was… pathetic.
“I hate you.” Michalai moves a little bit closer to the older man, eyes burning. So much like... “I will always hate you. Because you make my mother sad. You always make her sad. I can never forgive you.”
Quietly, Sloane says, “So you gonna kill me for it, then?”
Michalai blinks, as if the thought had just come to him, via the detective. It doesn't seem to shock him, though. He swallows, voice a bit more rough. “It would probably make her happier, if you were dead. Dead and gone, so she wouldn't have to hurt!”
Christ. It hurt to breathe. Who was he bothering for, these days? For his son? Even Arthur could see he was probably better off with Ritter and Emilia. Happy – safe. For Amy? She was so deep inside her own pain, so busy hiding it from herself, he couldn’t help her. Katiya had a whole mess of support he wasn’t any part of. Meg…
Part of him wanted to reach for the dark. To pull it back to himself, to numb… all this…
It's never better without you...
The words ghosted through his mind. A fading memory. Was that really enough to hold on to? Was that justification for…
There was a man who had been tied to a chair, shot in the head. There was another dead man on the floor. And then there was Arthur. He was badly beaten, covered in blood. He had straddled the prone man and was punching what used to be his face; now it was just a mess of blood and bone fragment and hair. The punches were hard, beating a steady rhythm against the floor, and he had to be damaging his own hand at this point, as there was no more damage he could do to the corpse. There were tears running down both cheeks, but it could hardly be called crying – the water escaping his eyes seemed to have as little effect on him as the blood escaping his wounds. Instead, there was a fierce, burning need coloring his features, chasing away thought, emotion, reflection of any kind.
Eventually, he thought, you fail enough there’s no way to make it up. And all he could do was wait for sleep to take him again.
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This was originally going to be a cutscene, but then
rougen prompted me with "only in my mind." So... yeah. He thought, sometimes, that it would be easy enough to write himself out of her life. If Daniel had been Willoughby’s son, could any of them deny it would have been easier? Didn’t take a genius to see the way the wind was blowing… and 2.5 kids added to the fact she loved him meant it was an easy enough equation.
Riku doesn't look back at her, a strange aura forming around him, quite like shadow. It's as if he is slowly leaking them. The screaming becomes louder and a hell-fire glow peaks out from within his clenched hand. He shoves the desk harshly back with his foot to pin Sloane to the wall. In a fluid motion, Arthur pulls a gun, safety already off and points it at Riku's head. Rage burns fresh in Riku’s eyes, and he raises his hand.
It hurt. God, his head hurt. His body ached. He felt like his very soul was bruised. With the darkness out, it had been easier. It had just been cool and simple; everything had seemed so clear. But now he had to wonder just what kind of story this was, really. And whose.
“Too bad you couldn't pull the trigger, eh my dear? Would have saved yourself quite a hassle.”
Kitathas says coolly, “I am beginning to wish that she had, Mr. Sloane, despite how much Meaghan loves you... it would have saved her, and Lady Amy a lot of pain. Whether the love outweighs the pain, however, is starting to waver in my mind. You choose poor and old weapons, Mr. Sloane, to try to fight your battles with.”
He had felt it, a little, even through the dark. When Meg’s mind went back to their worst times. To the pain. To what he’d done – what he had been capable of doing to her. He’d felt it, more and more, as the darkness was sucked away from him, and even now…
Thomas’ urge to pull a weapon has grown to a point that a blind man could read it in his eyes, but somehow, he only leaves his clenched fists on the table. “You want to convince me, stop hurting her.”
Calmly, though obviously not oblivious to the look in the other man's eyes, Sloane says, “And how would you propose I do that?” She bites her lip, not looking at either of them anymore.
“Normally I would recommend blowing your brains out all over the back wall, but I know that would hurt her as well. You stop making her cry, find a way, and maybe I'll be able to say your name without getting sick. I would love nothing better than to see that, beyond possibly punishing you for previous deeds.”
He wasn’t a monster, like Morpheo or the Omega. Not a hedonist, like the Darkness had once been, perhaps was still. Not a killer, like the WingBlade, or an animal like Willoughby.
No, a small voice inside him whispered. The only word for him was… pathetic.
“I hate you.” Michalai moves a little bit closer to the older man, eyes burning. So much like... “I will always hate you. Because you make my mother sad. You always make her sad. I can never forgive you.”
Quietly, Sloane says, “So you gonna kill me for it, then?”
Michalai blinks, as if the thought had just come to him, via the detective. It doesn't seem to shock him, though. He swallows, voice a bit more rough. “It would probably make her happier, if you were dead. Dead and gone, so she wouldn't have to hurt!”
Christ. It hurt to breathe. Who was he bothering for, these days? For his son? Even Arthur could see he was probably better off with Ritter and Emilia. Happy – safe. For Amy? She was so deep inside her own pain, so busy hiding it from herself, he couldn’t help her. Katiya had a whole mess of support he wasn’t any part of. Meg…
Part of him wanted to reach for the dark. To pull it back to himself, to numb… all this…
It's never better without you...
The words ghosted through his mind. A fading memory. Was that really enough to hold on to? Was that justification for…
There was a man who had been tied to a chair, shot in the head. There was another dead man on the floor. And then there was Arthur. He was badly beaten, covered in blood. He had straddled the prone man and was punching what used to be his face; now it was just a mess of blood and bone fragment and hair. The punches were hard, beating a steady rhythm against the floor, and he had to be damaging his own hand at this point, as there was no more damage he could do to the corpse. There were tears running down both cheeks, but it could hardly be called crying – the water escaping his eyes seemed to have as little effect on him as the blood escaping his wounds. Instead, there was a fierce, burning need coloring his features, chasing away thought, emotion, reflection of any kind.
Eventually, he thought, you fail enough there’s no way to make it up. And all he could do was wait for sleep to take him again.