Fic: Tick, Leverage
So this is... kinda depressing, actually. And kinda strange, to boot. Still. I like it anyway. (It's been that kind of a day.)
Title: Tick
Genre: angst, drama
Fandom: Leverage
Fill for: Just Doing My Job(though I might do a better one at some point)
Summary: The clock's ticking.
There's blood under his nails.
Dried dark, thick crescents that smell only faintly metallic.
It doesn't usually bother him.
Tonight...
is different.
::::::
spinning tangle of arms and legs, he can see the moves coming a mile away. Grab her hand as it flashes past his jaw, skin slippery with sweat under his palm, push up, against the joint, hear it break with a breathy scream that isn't as loud as it should be - foot buried to the ankle in her stomach, stealing her breath. Ride her down as she drops, pin her arms to her sides with his knees and fist one gloved hand in her hair, let her think, for a moment, (just a moment, no more, clock's ticking) about what he might do to her and wait until she's panicking (easier to control that way, that's all, nothing old and forgotten and buried that wakes to crawl around his soul) before slamming her face into the floor, once twice again before she goes still and then once more because she lies as easily as breathing and there's no margin for error in this, can't leave any of them standing to come after him again or sound the alarm and then up and gone, the whole encounter just brief seconds
::::::
Blood in the creases of his palms.
Ground into his skin, it won't come clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.
He's scrubbed hard.
Drawn blood of his own.
It won't come clean.
::::::
running soft on stone (like running on broken eggshells, broken glass, precious things that will be forever shattered by his passing) so they don't hear him coming, get in get out get it done clock's ticking, ticktock ticktock, pair of guards outside a door and they're armed, k54s, billy clubs, k-bars but hit them fast enough and they never even see it. Run on before they've hit the floor, through the door and this is the inner sanctum, what he's come for buried deep behind walls and sentinels and alarms, what he's been sent for. A job, that's all, clings to the thought like it's all that's keeping him afloat and maybe it is, something filling him up slowly, ocean of putrid, rancid red and black, storm clouds up ahead and he's running straight for them but that's all he can do, hope he's running fast enough to maybe run straight through the hurricane (always were good at lying to yourself, voice inside his head cackles. Ticktock.) He ducks around a corner
::::::
Knife in his hands, whetstone scraping, scraping.
Soothing, in its steady rhythm.
Hypnotic.
He's never let himself be hypnotized.
Too many memories.
::::::
stares down twin barrels and this is what failure feels like (feels like getting dead and leaving the job unfinished only he won't be the one paying the price), distance too great, see the trigger finger already tight, skin drawing pale and taut over swollen knuckles, flick a glance up to meet cold, uninterested eyes that couldn't care less about him or why or what will happen (guns to their heads, fear in their eyes and the clock) if he doesn't do what he's been sent to do. Duck and hurl the K-bar underhand, hit the ground and listen to the shotgun roar, both barrels whistling by, peppering the wall with shot. Heavy thud and gurgle and run past the guard trying to breathe around the knife buried in his throat, hard to remember anything around that and then, last door. No need to run now (the clock's still ticking), no more guards, no more alarms, no more walls, just him and the target and step through, shut it quietly behind. White walls, featureless, steel bed in the middle of the room, wires and tubes and machines. Pale gray eyes, watch through a film of cataracts, resignation, anger dulled with age to something chill and flaccid but he can see, it was incandescent, once. Don't say a word, reach out and turn off the machines but stay (tick) and watch (tock) and listen (tick) until it's over and then take what was demanded and walk away, back through the halls and rooms, past still figures (some of them stir, cower away from his passing) to the thick slabs of ancient wood that swing open on silent hinges, wind against his face, standing in the gateway and it's quiet, it's so quiet he can't even hear his heart, stillness and silence you only get in the high peaks. Can't step out of the gate, into the world again, outside time and space, this place (this hell he's made), there's no one left to fight and he's lost. Hard lump in his pocket, reach in, hold the tiny, resinous bud in his palm. Put it in his ear.
tocktick
“It's done. Let them go.”
::::::
Empty apartment, summer heat sticky and thick, turns the night into something tangible, cloying weight that smothers. There's blood under his nails, dried dark, thick crescents that smell only faintly metallic.
It doesn't usually bother him.
Tonight is different.
Tonight, he failed.
::::::
Four down. Anyone out there still awake? Or have I bored you all to dust by now?
Title: Tick
Genre: angst, drama
Fandom: Leverage
Fill for: Just Doing My Job(though I might do a better one at some point)
Summary: The clock's ticking.
There's blood under his nails.
Dried dark, thick crescents that smell only faintly metallic.
It doesn't usually bother him.
Tonight...
is different.
::::::
spinning tangle of arms and legs, he can see the moves coming a mile away. Grab her hand as it flashes past his jaw, skin slippery with sweat under his palm, push up, against the joint, hear it break with a breathy scream that isn't as loud as it should be - foot buried to the ankle in her stomach, stealing her breath. Ride her down as she drops, pin her arms to her sides with his knees and fist one gloved hand in her hair, let her think, for a moment, (just a moment, no more, clock's ticking) about what he might do to her and wait until she's panicking (easier to control that way, that's all, nothing old and forgotten and buried that wakes to crawl around his soul) before slamming her face into the floor, once twice again before she goes still and then once more because she lies as easily as breathing and there's no margin for error in this, can't leave any of them standing to come after him again or sound the alarm and then up and gone, the whole encounter just brief seconds
::::::
Blood in the creases of his palms.
Ground into his skin, it won't come clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.
He's scrubbed hard.
Drawn blood of his own.
It won't come clean.
::::::
running soft on stone (like running on broken eggshells, broken glass, precious things that will be forever shattered by his passing) so they don't hear him coming, get in get out get it done clock's ticking, ticktock ticktock, pair of guards outside a door and they're armed, k54s, billy clubs, k-bars but hit them fast enough and they never even see it. Run on before they've hit the floor, through the door and this is the inner sanctum, what he's come for buried deep behind walls and sentinels and alarms, what he's been sent for. A job, that's all, clings to the thought like it's all that's keeping him afloat and maybe it is, something filling him up slowly, ocean of putrid, rancid red and black, storm clouds up ahead and he's running straight for them but that's all he can do, hope he's running fast enough to maybe run straight through the hurricane (always were good at lying to yourself, voice inside his head cackles. Ticktock.) He ducks around a corner
::::::
Knife in his hands, whetstone scraping, scraping.
Soothing, in its steady rhythm.
Hypnotic.
He's never let himself be hypnotized.
Too many memories.
::::::
stares down twin barrels and this is what failure feels like (feels like getting dead and leaving the job unfinished only he won't be the one paying the price), distance too great, see the trigger finger already tight, skin drawing pale and taut over swollen knuckles, flick a glance up to meet cold, uninterested eyes that couldn't care less about him or why or what will happen (guns to their heads, fear in their eyes and the clock) if he doesn't do what he's been sent to do. Duck and hurl the K-bar underhand, hit the ground and listen to the shotgun roar, both barrels whistling by, peppering the wall with shot. Heavy thud and gurgle and run past the guard trying to breathe around the knife buried in his throat, hard to remember anything around that and then, last door. No need to run now (the clock's still ticking), no more guards, no more alarms, no more walls, just him and the target and step through, shut it quietly behind. White walls, featureless, steel bed in the middle of the room, wires and tubes and machines. Pale gray eyes, watch through a film of cataracts, resignation, anger dulled with age to something chill and flaccid but he can see, it was incandescent, once. Don't say a word, reach out and turn off the machines but stay (tick) and watch (tock) and listen (tick) until it's over and then take what was demanded and walk away, back through the halls and rooms, past still figures (some of them stir, cower away from his passing) to the thick slabs of ancient wood that swing open on silent hinges, wind against his face, standing in the gateway and it's quiet, it's so quiet he can't even hear his heart, stillness and silence you only get in the high peaks. Can't step out of the gate, into the world again, outside time and space, this place (this hell he's made), there's no one left to fight and he's lost. Hard lump in his pocket, reach in, hold the tiny, resinous bud in his palm. Put it in his ear.
tocktick
“It's done. Let them go.”
::::::
Empty apartment, summer heat sticky and thick, turns the night into something tangible, cloying weight that smothers. There's blood under his nails, dried dark, thick crescents that smell only faintly metallic.
It doesn't usually bother him.
Tonight is different.
Tonight, he failed.
::::::
Four down. Anyone out there still awake? Or have I bored you all to dust by now?