He's been here, Vicious realized with a jolt. The thought jerked
him from a sound sleep, and he slumped over, hands braced to prop himself
up. Julia slept on, unaware of the torment in his soul. Or
maybe she just doesn't care, he thought.
It had taken a long time to convince her, persuading, coaxing, cajoling,
before she'd finally agreed to take the Red-Eye with him, and they'd lit
into each other with a frenzy, tearing the small apartment to pieces before
crashing at last into the bed and, for him, at least, a restless sleep.
But it wasn't the drugs that disturbed him.
It was her. She had cried out near the end, pleading for release, begging
him, begging Spike to take her over the edge. In the
end, he'd fuzzily wrapped his fingers around her throat to silence the name
on her lips.
Spike. Had he been with her, been here, in her bed? Or
had she only wished it, wanted it, made believe in the drug-induced fog?
Or had she wanted Spike all along, and been pretending every time, only declaring
her true desire once the Red-Eye whisked away her inhibitions?
He'd go crazy if he kept this up. Maybe he was imagining things.
Mao had chastised him more than once for jumping at shadows, for seeing more
than was there, though he'd been praised as often for catching something
no one else saw. Hard to know, then if this was real or just some nightmare.
So lost had Vicious been in his ponderings that he hadn't heard the footsteps
on the stairs, or rather, had not thought to pay attention to them, or the
soft noise of the apartment door opening. But he heard it now as it
slammed closed, and realized that for a few precious seconds, he had been
observed, nude, in Julia's bed. Not a problem, normally. Everyone
knew Julia was his. But there had been just enough light from the street
to illuminate green hair, a sickened expression, and the empty vial of Red-Eye
on the nightstand.
Slowly, or so it felt, Vicious reached across Julia's slumbering form to
the nightstand, past the empty vial toward the gun, then past the gun to
the pack of cigarettes and lighter lying beyond it. Retrieving them,
he slid out the far side of the bed and leaned against the wall next to the
open window. He shook a stick up and caught it in his mouth, flicking
the lighter to light it, then tossed the pack and lighter onto the other
nightstand behind him. Cold air blew in to brush his exposed skin,
but he made no move to cover himself. Cold and warmth were external
forces, and he allowed them no effect on his true self.
He blew a stream of smoke from his nose and watched as the green-haired form
appeared in the street below, huddled in a bomber jacket, walking resolutely
away. And in that moment, Vicious knew it didn't matter. Spike
would have to die. Slowly, Vicious stretched out one long-fingered
hand, index finger pointed squarely at his foster brother's back. "Bang,"
he whispered softly.
In the bed, Julia stirred. "Vicious?"
Nice that she finally remembered. "It's nothing, Julia.
Go back to sleep."
~FIN~
Extra-special thanks to Lady Razorsharp. This little ficlet was inspired
in part by her work-in-progress, "Beyond Beautiful,"
a wonderful piece of work, and well worthy of a look (and a review or three).
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