Ficlet: It always rains in Prague
Titel: It always rains in Prague
Author: Vesta
Rating: G
Category: Melancholy
Words: 611
Disclaimer: I do not own. I own nothing, so don't sue.
Feedback: Yes, please, if you would be so kind
Summary: The rooms are emtpy, the car is empty. The only constant is the rain. Too many Tuesdays and one neverending Wednesday.
Notes:For the record; I don't think that it always rains in Prague. Set at the time of 'Mystery Spot', between one Wednesday and the next. Unbetad. Mind your eyes and beware of grammatical horrors. The most excellent banner is by ala_tariel. It's amazing. Hunnybunny, you are the sweetest!
It always rains in Prague. He stands in front of the window, faint reflection of himself staring back. Big, fat raindrops spatter against the glass, distorting his face. Or perhaps showing it as it really is, the face he feels under his fingertips when he strokes a hand over it, rubbing tired eyes, being the twisted image. He doesn't know, and he doesn't care. It always rains…
He's alone. The emptiness beside him, around him, screams of silence where there should be sounds. The soft sighs of the rain can't drown the echoing quiet. He wonders if it really always rains in Prague, or if that is something he picked up before.
Detroit, Michigan. It rains. Heavy, thunderous rain, drowning him. He has a lead. The old warehouse is empty, but there is a note for him. "Too late," it says. As he doesn't know already. As he doesn't know that he is failing, and has been even since before. The rain doesn't stop. Not there, not in Prague. Still alone.
The recorded voice on his voicemail is barely audible over the rain and the steady whoosh of the wipers across the windshield. "Would be nice to hear your voice," it says. That is not the voice he wants to hear. He turns the phone off, tosses it in the backseat. The empty backseat. He guns the car, too fast on the wet road. The rain hits like a flood, the only thing he can see for a moment is himself, reflected in the water.
Jackson, Tennessee. The room is empty, looks like no one has been there. Just him. One bed. One bag. The precious map tacked to the wall the only hint of anyone staying there. He sits on the bed, cleans his guns. Doesn't have to look at his hand while he does it. Knows the moves too well, for too long. Looks at the map, traces his own tracks, his own failures. The rain doesn't stop. There has to be something wrong, he is not in Prague but still it is always raining. The thought strikes him; perhaps he is carrying the rain with him. Making the sky cry instead of the tears he can't shed.
A new lead. The voice on the voicemail tells him to hurry up. He does. It might be a good lead this time. He hasn't been back to 'that' spot since 'that' day. He wonders if the shovel is still standing, after all these months. Not even then did he cry, but it started to rain.
He knows something is not right even before he touches the door. Or maybe this is the most right things have been for a long time now. It's hard to tell. The house is old, deserted. Empty as the space beside him, behind him. It takes him a moment to catch on; the rain has stopped. The door creaks when he opens it, sharpened stake hidden in his jacket. He wants to set the world on fire, for making him be this alone for so long. Can't, though. The world is too wet.
That doesn't matter anyway. This is it. He knows, from the core of his being, that this is where it ends. The loneliness and the rain. And if it doesn't, the world will end. He'll make sure of that.
"Please, bring him back."
The pillow is soft under his head. The radio is blaring.
"Yeah, it's Wednesday. Usually comes after Tuesday."
He looks out the window, can't see himself reflected. Can feel the smile and the tear on his face though. "I wonder," he says, "if it really always rains in Prague."