Reparation
Reparation
PG-13
Post-Karnak. Adrian, Laurie - An equal exchange.
Fill for sensory deprivation, for hc_bingo.
Contains: Pseudo-sexual bondage, violence, suicidal undertones
Adrian Veidt waits.
There is a significant part of him that hopes Laurie is going to kill him, if only because it would be an appropriate death. He doubts that she will. Laurie does not have the moral failings or the delusions that would allow her to kill someone who was once a friend, regardless of how his actions affected her life. Whether that makes her violence childish or mature, well…Adrian is not in a position to cast aspersions on others' motives. Figuratively, mostly.
Laurie tied him up, her posture contained, face blank. He was surprised that she didn’t do it roughly; his wrists aren’t sore, and if he tried to break free, he could. She gagged him next, then plugged his ears with clever things that left Adrian in a black hole of silence. She talked as she searched her bag for something else. One silver pistol stayed in her hand all the while. Adrian let her, but she is angry.
Justifiably. Adrian can accept that.
She tied a black bag over his head, then disappeared. Or perhaps she’s still here, talking to herself and counting bullets and keeping an eye on the clock. Adrian takes the time between to contemplate how long it’s been since he made any contact with her. The days have gone by so quickly. They satisfy as grapes do, leaving Adrian with the flimsy skeleton of change. It’s grown stronger. People do not need to band together to stop crime anymore. Fewer children to hungry by the day. War is becoming history.
The hard, cold barrel of the pistol touches Adrian’s chest. He arches up into it, surprised. There is the slightest of tremors from it. A warm fondness burns in Adrian’s heart as he realizes how afraid Laurie must be of her pain. He’d like to stroke her hair. The gun disappears, and Adrian is in suspension again. He can feel the folds of his sheets against his back; the temperature is mild in his room. The cloth over his head smells like smoke.
Laurie kneels on the bed, rocking him to one side. She lies the barrel of the gun against Adrian’s neck. He waits. Her fingers, which he can feel against his collarbone, tighten. Move away. The chill remains.
Then: Pain. She strikes him with the pistol in the face several times in quick succession, indiscriminate. Adrian can feel himself smiling through the pain, placid. Blood fills his mouth and runs down from his nose. He’ll choke like this.
She stops. Adrian holds the blood in his mouth, hot and tangy. The corner of the bed sinks down again. “Oh, Laurie,” he wants to say. He never had any siblings and has never wanted children, but the sudden surge of emotions he has is unmistakably parental, protective. He’s hurt her in so many unique ways, and he’s not sorry for most of them.
Her weight slides away.
Enough time passes that he wonders if she’s left.
For lack of anything better to do, he lapses into meditation, and what little was left of the world trickles away.
*
There is her weight, dipping him towards her. She straddles his chest; the hard seams of her jeans digs into his skin. The smell of smoke intensifies.
When she pulls off the bag, Adrian is surprised by how dark it still is; the only light is coming from under his door. He at least expected that Laurie would try and temporarily blind him. Laurie’s face is perfectly composed; she hasn’t been crying. Blonde hair falls in smooth lines over her shoulders, down her back. She looks rather like his mother, if his mother ever had an ounce of aggression in her. They stare each other in the eyes. Laurie, to her credit, is no longer talking. The pistol in her hand gleams, but she is not going to kill him. She wants to. She won’t.
Laurie bends so that her face is close, very close. She rubs at the dried blood under his nose and on his cheek, pushes hard on the bruises under his eye and on the side of his head. Her fingers slide through his hair. She is close enough that he can read her lips when she says, “I hate you.”
Adrian nods: I know.
She bares her teeth at him; she takes the time to set the pistol down on his side table before wrapping her hands around his neck.
“I hate you,” she repeats, squeezing.
Adrian shuts his eyes.
When he opens them again, she’s screaming it, streams of mascara running down her cheeks, rivers of despair. Adrian can no longer breathe at all. The pain is phenomenal, but he’s suffered worse. Laurie is choking on her anguish. The blood in his mouth has either been swallowed or spit out against the gag, lukewarm on his chin. His pulse pounds in his temples, desperate.
Laurie lets go. Adrian’s disappointment wracks his bones.
She stays sitting on him as she cries, her sobs heavy enough to shake through him. She’s not quite done when she finally looks back at him; still, her hands don’t tremble when she takes off the bloody mess of a gag. Adrian smiles.
“You’re very brave, Laurie,” he tells her, gently, “but bravery is not enough. This isn’t a moral failing.”
“Fuck you,” she says, even though he still can’t hear her. “Fuck you.”
She unties his hands, each movement angry, then walks out, taking her pistol. Adrian slowly unties his feet, then removes the ear plugs-music is playing in his living room. He changes clothes. Laurie’s footsteps are still clicking noisily through his apartment by the time he’s finished, and he emerges with the expectation that she’ll try to kill him again, believing her moral fiber strengthened by a fair fight. When she sees him, she stops dead. The music roars in his ears.
“He’s dead,” she says.
“I know.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” She hasn’t bothered to clean her face. The makeup looks like warpaint.
“Yes,” Adrian lies.
Laurie takes aim. “I’m going to kill you,” she informs him, low and smooth and dangerous, “but you’re going to regret it before I do.” She is telling the truth. Adrian finally believes that she can.
“Good,” he says, and means it.
PG-13
Post-Karnak. Adrian, Laurie - An equal exchange.
Fill for sensory deprivation, for hc_bingo.
Contains: Pseudo-sexual bondage, violence, suicidal undertones
Adrian Veidt waits.
There is a significant part of him that hopes Laurie is going to kill him, if only because it would be an appropriate death. He doubts that she will. Laurie does not have the moral failings or the delusions that would allow her to kill someone who was once a friend, regardless of how his actions affected her life. Whether that makes her violence childish or mature, well…Adrian is not in a position to cast aspersions on others' motives. Figuratively, mostly.
Laurie tied him up, her posture contained, face blank. He was surprised that she didn’t do it roughly; his wrists aren’t sore, and if he tried to break free, he could. She gagged him next, then plugged his ears with clever things that left Adrian in a black hole of silence. She talked as she searched her bag for something else. One silver pistol stayed in her hand all the while. Adrian let her, but she is angry.
Justifiably. Adrian can accept that.
She tied a black bag over his head, then disappeared. Or perhaps she’s still here, talking to herself and counting bullets and keeping an eye on the clock. Adrian takes the time between to contemplate how long it’s been since he made any contact with her. The days have gone by so quickly. They satisfy as grapes do, leaving Adrian with the flimsy skeleton of change. It’s grown stronger. People do not need to band together to stop crime anymore. Fewer children to hungry by the day. War is becoming history.
The hard, cold barrel of the pistol touches Adrian’s chest. He arches up into it, surprised. There is the slightest of tremors from it. A warm fondness burns in Adrian’s heart as he realizes how afraid Laurie must be of her pain. He’d like to stroke her hair. The gun disappears, and Adrian is in suspension again. He can feel the folds of his sheets against his back; the temperature is mild in his room. The cloth over his head smells like smoke.
Laurie kneels on the bed, rocking him to one side. She lies the barrel of the gun against Adrian’s neck. He waits. Her fingers, which he can feel against his collarbone, tighten. Move away. The chill remains.
Then: Pain. She strikes him with the pistol in the face several times in quick succession, indiscriminate. Adrian can feel himself smiling through the pain, placid. Blood fills his mouth and runs down from his nose. He’ll choke like this.
She stops. Adrian holds the blood in his mouth, hot and tangy. The corner of the bed sinks down again. “Oh, Laurie,” he wants to say. He never had any siblings and has never wanted children, but the sudden surge of emotions he has is unmistakably parental, protective. He’s hurt her in so many unique ways, and he’s not sorry for most of them.
Her weight slides away.
Enough time passes that he wonders if she’s left.
For lack of anything better to do, he lapses into meditation, and what little was left of the world trickles away.
*
There is her weight, dipping him towards her. She straddles his chest; the hard seams of her jeans digs into his skin. The smell of smoke intensifies.
When she pulls off the bag, Adrian is surprised by how dark it still is; the only light is coming from under his door. He at least expected that Laurie would try and temporarily blind him. Laurie’s face is perfectly composed; she hasn’t been crying. Blonde hair falls in smooth lines over her shoulders, down her back. She looks rather like his mother, if his mother ever had an ounce of aggression in her. They stare each other in the eyes. Laurie, to her credit, is no longer talking. The pistol in her hand gleams, but she is not going to kill him. She wants to. She won’t.
Laurie bends so that her face is close, very close. She rubs at the dried blood under his nose and on his cheek, pushes hard on the bruises under his eye and on the side of his head. Her fingers slide through his hair. She is close enough that he can read her lips when she says, “I hate you.”
Adrian nods: I know.
She bares her teeth at him; she takes the time to set the pistol down on his side table before wrapping her hands around his neck.
“I hate you,” she repeats, squeezing.
Adrian shuts his eyes.
When he opens them again, she’s screaming it, streams of mascara running down her cheeks, rivers of despair. Adrian can no longer breathe at all. The pain is phenomenal, but he’s suffered worse. Laurie is choking on her anguish. The blood in his mouth has either been swallowed or spit out against the gag, lukewarm on his chin. His pulse pounds in his temples, desperate.
Laurie lets go. Adrian’s disappointment wracks his bones.
She stays sitting on him as she cries, her sobs heavy enough to shake through him. She’s not quite done when she finally looks back at him; still, her hands don’t tremble when she takes off the bloody mess of a gag. Adrian smiles.
“You’re very brave, Laurie,” he tells her, gently, “but bravery is not enough. This isn’t a moral failing.”
“Fuck you,” she says, even though he still can’t hear her. “Fuck you.”
She unties his hands, each movement angry, then walks out, taking her pistol. Adrian slowly unties his feet, then removes the ear plugs-music is playing in his living room. He changes clothes. Laurie’s footsteps are still clicking noisily through his apartment by the time he’s finished, and he emerges with the expectation that she’ll try to kill him again, believing her moral fiber strengthened by a fair fight. When she sees him, she stops dead. The music roars in his ears.
“He’s dead,” she says.
“I know.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” She hasn’t bothered to clean her face. The makeup looks like warpaint.
“Yes,” Adrian lies.
Laurie takes aim. “I’m going to kill you,” she informs him, low and smooth and dangerous, “but you’re going to regret it before I do.” She is telling the truth. Adrian finally believes that she can.
“Good,” he says, and means it.