we can't punch ourselves awake | warnings for major character death, guns, and fire | casey/hunter | 1/2
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This is an end.
Not the end, not for you, at least, not yet
(that comes later, smelling like expensive perfume and lime shampoo, wearing a face you know well but never thought you’d see again, but that’s a story for another time)
but this - Hunter with the gun shaking in his hands, eyes wide and stuck on yours, a burning building as your backdrop - this is an end.
“Casey,” Hunter says, and his voice is shaking, too. Something underneath you tilts, and you can’t tell whether it’s metaphorical or literal. Maybe it’s both. The world is falling apart - metaphorically and literally - after all.
Your hair is dark with soot. Part of your brain notes that it’s probably what finally gave you away - with your blonde hair gone it’s impossible to miss who you’ve become.
Simple but effective, that hair trick. Your very own Clark Kent glasses.
But glasses fall off, and there’s soot settling into your curls, and Hunter’s got a gun aimed at your head.
Hunter swallows, says, “Casey,” again, his voice breaking down the middle of the word, and then, “Why?”
Someone shouts in the distance. A breeze brushes more ash between the two of you. The fire echoes around you - the air is still too hot, still smells like burning paper and burning sheets and burning flesh. There’s a bruise blossoming on Hunter’s jaw.
Suddenly everything feels too big and too small. The academy is collapsing around you; all your work is crescendoing into the final, sweeping act; this is your moment of triumphant victory; and yet all your focus is narrowed down to Hunter and his eyes and his gun.
“All this time,” Hunter says, and his voice is aching. “All this time we thought you were on our side, and you were her. You were one of them all along.”
“It wasn’t,” you try, but he cuts you off before you can get anywhere. It wasn’t like that.
I didn’t know.
“No, Casey,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound threatening - just tired, like this conversation, this realisation, is taking up too much of him - but you’re scared anyway. He has always scared you. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this one.”
You smile. You don’t know whether it looks cruel or manic or tired, like him. You can’t find it in you to care. There’s only two ways this can end, now that he knows. “You know we can’t both walk away from this.”
His whole body jerks violently.
“I can’t let you tell anyone else,” you continue, and wait as his eyes dart from your mouth to your feet to his fingers around the gun and then back to your face before finishing, “You can’t let me go, not now.”
we can't punch ourselves awake | warnings for major character death, guns, and fire | casey/hunter | 2/2
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“Casey,” he says, again, and it’s a gasp this time, like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of you, like he’ll end up a pile of shards on the blackened grass if you don’t walk away, or maybe if you do walk away, or maybe either way. “Casey, please.”
“Hunter.” He meets your eyes again. You’ve never seen him look so lost. The gun is still unsteady in his hands.
You can’t blame him. It came as a surprise to you, too.
(Here’s the thing: this was never your plan. This wasn’t where your story was supposed to end. But somehow, somewhere along the line, this is the person you became.
You didn’t realise there might have been a chance to turn back until way, way after that hypothetic chance was long gone. Until all the wheels you’d set into motion had spun beyond your reach and all you were left with was the consequences and the dreadful knowledge that you are what you thought you’d been fighting against the whole time.)
You try for another smile, a reassuring one; you’re still not sure it works.
“You have to kill me. Now. You have to do it.”
His face is torn open, all his fear and his hurt and his confusion written clear across is - and, even clearer, desperation. He doesn’t want to kill you.
“I can’t,” he breathes, arms dropping (regret and exhaustion and something burning and defiant that could be love if you weren’t so jaded). “I can’t kill you, Casey. I won’t do it.”
You cross the distance between you, wrap your own fingers around his around the gun.
“Please.” Together, you lift the gun so it presses against your chest, over your heart. “End this. Hunter, please.”
He watches the gun move as you breathe, in, out, in, out, and then his face shutters itself back up, determination setting all his lines back into place.
“I’m not shooting you.”
You always forget that he’s as stubborn as you are, when it comes down to it.
“I can’t let you walk away,” you tell him again. Your fingers tighten around his but it’s not enough to fire the gun. “If you don’t kill me. I can’t, Hunter, I-I can’t.”
“So shoot me.” He pries the gun out of your grip and then hands it to you. It’s a dare. It’s a sacrifice. It’s a promise.
He’s still trying to save you.
You’ve got no choice, now. You can’t leave him alive.
He’s made it inevitable, out of your hands. You’ll be grateful for it for the rest of your life.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and you’re close enough that you can lean in, press your mouth against his, curl one hand against the bruise on his jaw as the other presses the gun to his chest and pulls the trigger.
You catch him as he falls. If this was a film it would feel symbolic, but it’s not - you’re just kids, you’re not heroes; it just feels wrong. He’s too heavy even though you know, rationally, that he isn’t. The bullet gets stuck inside him. When you pull his jacket off it’s clean, aside from the ash caked into the creases.
(You’re still wearing it when Zoe finds you.)
It’s an end.
Not your end, however much it feels something’s a little more broken inside of you, now, but an end.
the first thing you should know about this is that from the day it was written i continue to revisit it, reread it, and experience my very legitimate death, ad infinitum. mostly i think about how i have still not written a proper comment, mostly because every time i try i am too far on the floor to reach the keyboard, because you have killed me, and i can no longer hold myself in a sitting position. i also think about how perfect and horrible it is and how it is one of my most favorite things in the known universe. so i OWE IT A PROPER COMMENT, EVEN THOUGH IT WILL JUST BE ME SCREAMING FOR 500 YEARS; I.E., "MY LONGEST YEA BOI EVER," EXCEPT I AM CRYING. ETC.!!!
Not the end, not for you, at least, not yet
(that comes later, smelling like expensive perfume and lime shampoo, wearing a face you know well but never thought you’d see again, but that’s a story for another time)
but this - Hunter with the gun shaking in his hands, eyes wide and stuck on yours, a burning building as your backdrop - this is an end. this is beautiful and the formatting is beautiful; i'm furious. But glasses fall off, and there’s soot settling into your curls, and Hunter’s got a gun aimed at your head. SHIT!!!!! “Casey,” again, his voice breaking down the middle of the word, and then, “Why?” ALRIGHT FIONA, ALRIGHT!!! IDK WHAT I DID TO CAUSE YOU TO SPITE ME IN THIS MANNER BUT ALRIGHT!!
i love the escalation of the air is still too hot, still smells like burning paper and burning sheets and burning flesh. i love the strange beauty of the language you chose when you talked about the bruise blossoming on Hunter’s jaw. i love how much the line this is your moment of triumphant victory; and yet all your focus is narrowed down to Hunter and his eyes and his gun stabbed me in the chest and left me to die. HE HAS ALWAYS SCARED YOU.
it’s a gasp this time, like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of you, like he’ll end up a pile of shards on the blackened grass if you don’t walk away, or maybe if you do walk away, or maybe either way--JUST, PLACE ME STILL LIVING ON MY OWN FUNERAL PYRE, IT'S FINE. regret and exhaustion and something burning and defiant that could be love if you weren’t so jaded--FUCK! ALRIGHT! It’s a dare. It’s a sacrifice. It’s a promise. . . . He’s still trying to save you. READING THIS AT WORK WAS AN AWFUL IDEA BC I CAN FEEL TEARS FORMING IN MY EYES NOW NOT JOKING BYE!!!! she touches the bruise on his jaw! If this was a film it would feel symbolic, but it’s not - you’re just kids, you’re not heroes; it just feels wrong. He’s too heavy even though you know, rationally, that he isn’t. The bullet gets stuck inside him. WHAT HAVE I DONE TO EARN YOUR HATRED, FIONA? HOW HAVE I WRONGED YOU? LET ME ATONE FOR IT SO YOU CAN NEVER CAUSE ME SUCH SUFFERING AGAIN, JAY EFF CEE.
TL;DR: YOU ARE AWFUL AND I HATE YOU AND I PRINTED THIS OUT AND IT'S IN MY DESK AND I READ IT SOMETIMES WHEN I FEEL LIKE SUFFERING AND/OR REMEMBERING WHAT WRITING IS AND WHY IT'S IMPORTANT AND WHY I LOVE IT. THIS WAS PROBABLY LIKE NOTHING TO YOU BUT TO ME IT IS EVERYTHING. THANK YOU. I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU. THANK YOU.
---
This is an end.
Not the end, not for you, at least, not yet
(that comes later, smelling like expensive perfume and lime shampoo, wearing a face you know well but never thought you’d see again, but that’s a story for another time)
but this - Hunter with the gun shaking in his hands, eyes wide and stuck on yours, a burning building as your backdrop - this is an end.
“Casey,” Hunter says, and his voice is shaking, too. Something underneath you tilts, and you can’t tell whether it’s metaphorical or literal. Maybe it’s both. The world is falling apart - metaphorically and literally - after all.
Your hair is dark with soot. Part of your brain notes that it’s probably what finally gave you away - with your blonde hair gone it’s impossible to miss who you’ve become.
Simple but effective, that hair trick. Your very own Clark Kent glasses.
But glasses fall off, and there’s soot settling into your curls, and Hunter’s got a gun aimed at your head.
Hunter swallows, says, “Casey,” again, his voice breaking down the middle of the word, and then, “Why?”
Someone shouts in the distance. A breeze brushes more ash between the two of you. The fire echoes around you - the air is still too hot, still smells like burning paper and burning sheets and burning flesh. There’s a bruise blossoming on Hunter’s jaw.
Suddenly everything feels too big and too small. The academy is collapsing around you; all your work is crescendoing into the final, sweeping act; this is your moment of triumphant victory; and yet all your focus is narrowed down to Hunter and his eyes and his gun.
“All this time,” Hunter says, and his voice is aching. “All this time we thought you were on our side, and you were her. You were one of them all along.”
“It wasn’t,” you try, but he cuts you off before you can get anywhere. It wasn’t like that.
I didn’t know.
“No, Casey,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound threatening - just tired, like this conversation, this realisation, is taking up too much of him - but you’re scared anyway. He has always scared you. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this one.”
You smile. You don’t know whether it looks cruel or manic or tired, like him. You can’t find it in you to care. There’s only two ways this can end, now that he knows. “You know we can’t both walk away from this.”
His whole body jerks violently.
“I can’t let you tell anyone else,” you continue, and wait as his eyes dart from your mouth to your feet to his fingers around the gun and then back to your face before finishing, “You can’t let me go, not now.”
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---
“Casey,” he says, again, and it’s a gasp this time, like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of you, like he’ll end up a pile of shards on the blackened grass if you don’t walk away, or maybe if you do walk away, or maybe either way. “Casey, please.”
“Hunter.” He meets your eyes again. You’ve never seen him look so lost. The gun is still unsteady in his hands.
You can’t blame him. It came as a surprise to you, too.
(Here’s the thing: this was never your plan. This wasn’t where your story was supposed to end. But somehow, somewhere along the line, this is the person you became.
You didn’t realise there might have been a chance to turn back until way, way after that hypothetic chance was long gone. Until all the wheels you’d set into motion had spun beyond your reach and all you were left with was the consequences and the dreadful knowledge that you are what you thought you’d been fighting against the whole time.)
You try for another smile, a reassuring one; you’re still not sure it works.
“You have to kill me. Now. You have to do it.”
His face is torn open, all his fear and his hurt and his confusion written clear across is - and, even clearer, desperation. He doesn’t want to kill you.
“I can’t,” he breathes, arms dropping (regret and exhaustion and something burning and defiant that could be love if you weren’t so jaded). “I can’t kill you, Casey. I won’t do it.”
You cross the distance between you, wrap your own fingers around his around the gun.
“Please.” Together, you lift the gun so it presses against your chest, over your heart. “End this. Hunter, please.”
He watches the gun move as you breathe, in, out, in, out, and then his face shutters itself back up, determination setting all his lines back into place.
“I’m not shooting you.”
You always forget that he’s as stubborn as you are, when it comes down to it.
“I can’t let you walk away,” you tell him again. Your fingers tighten around his but it’s not enough to fire the gun. “If you don’t kill me. I can’t, Hunter, I-I can’t.”
“So shoot me.” He pries the gun out of your grip and then hands it to you. It’s a dare. It’s a sacrifice. It’s a promise.
He’s still trying to save you.
You’ve got no choice, now. You can’t leave him alive.
He’s made it inevitable, out of your hands. You’ll be grateful for it for the rest of your life.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and you’re close enough that you can lean in, press your mouth against his, curl one hand against the bruise on his jaw as the other presses the gun to his chest and pulls the trigger.
You catch him as he falls. If this was a film it would feel symbolic, but it’s not - you’re just kids, you’re not heroes; it just feels wrong. He’s too heavy even though you know, rationally, that he isn’t. The bullet gets stuck inside him. When you pull his jacket off it’s clean, aside from the ash caked into the creases.
(You’re still wearing it when Zoe finds you.)
It’s an end.
Not your end, however much it feels something’s a little more broken inside of you, now, but an end.
Hunter’s end.
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Reply
the first thing you should know about this is that from the day it was written i continue to revisit it, reread it, and experience my very legitimate death, ad infinitum. mostly i think about how i have still not written a proper comment, mostly because every time i try i am too far on the floor to reach the keyboard, because you have killed me, and i can no longer hold myself in a sitting position. i also think about how perfect and horrible it is and how it is one of my most favorite things in the known universe. so i OWE IT A PROPER COMMENT, EVEN THOUGH IT WILL JUST BE ME SCREAMING FOR 500 YEARS; I.E., "MY LONGEST YEA BOI EVER," EXCEPT I AM CRYING. ETC.!!!
Not the end, not for you, at least, not yet
(that comes later, smelling like expensive perfume and lime shampoo, wearing a face you know well but never thought you’d see again, but that’s a story for another time)
but this - Hunter with the gun shaking in his hands, eyes wide and stuck on yours, a burning building as your backdrop - this is an end. this is beautiful and the formatting is beautiful; i'm furious. But glasses fall off, and there’s soot settling into your curls, and Hunter’s got a gun aimed at your head. SHIT!!!!! “Casey,” again, his voice breaking down the middle of the word, and then, “Why?” ALRIGHT FIONA, ALRIGHT!!! IDK WHAT I DID TO CAUSE YOU TO SPITE ME IN THIS MANNER BUT ALRIGHT!!
i love the escalation of the air is still too hot, still smells like burning paper and burning sheets and burning flesh. i love the strange beauty of the language you chose when you talked about the bruise blossoming on Hunter’s jaw. i love how much the line this is your moment of triumphant victory; and yet all your focus is narrowed down to Hunter and his eyes and his gun stabbed me in the chest and left me to die. HE HAS ALWAYS SCARED YOU.
it’s a gasp this time, like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of you, like he’ll end up a pile of shards on the blackened grass if you don’t walk away, or maybe if you do walk away, or maybe either way--JUST, PLACE ME STILL LIVING ON MY OWN FUNERAL PYRE, IT'S FINE. regret and exhaustion and something burning and defiant that could be love if you weren’t so jaded--FUCK! ALRIGHT! It’s a dare. It’s a sacrifice. It’s a promise. . . . He’s still trying to save you. READING THIS AT WORK WAS AN AWFUL IDEA BC I CAN FEEL TEARS FORMING IN MY EYES NOW NOT JOKING BYE!!!! she touches the bruise on his jaw! If this was a film it would feel symbolic, but it’s not - you’re just kids, you’re not heroes; it just feels wrong. He’s too heavy even though you know, rationally, that he isn’t. The bullet gets stuck inside him. WHAT HAVE I DONE TO EARN YOUR HATRED, FIONA? HOW HAVE I WRONGED YOU? LET ME ATONE FOR IT SO YOU CAN NEVER CAUSE ME SUCH SUFFERING AGAIN, JAY EFF CEE.
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