Down by the Water, margo_kim, blue cortina, Gen
Advent Calender day 16! (Well, day 16 in Western Samoa ^^; That's valid, right?)
Title: Down by the Water
Word Count: 1,800
Rating: Blue Cortina
Summary: Immediately post 1x08. Vic's plans for escape get sidetracked as he's stalked by a figure in red.
Notes: It's still a holiday fic, just inspired by a different holiday. Christmas is lovely and my favorite time of the year, but sometimes you're more in the mood for Halloween.
Vic knew the rules. Get out of Manchester. Now. By rights, he should be gone already, should have hoofed it in the woods the second that nutter let him go. DI Tyler. Vic should have checked for bullets. He should have done things right.
That didn’t matter now. He needed money. He needed a gun. He couldn’t survive on the run without either one, not with the men he’d burned to climb this high. Without some insurance, his enemies would have his head on a platter, a literal platter, by the end of the week. God, Vic had sacrificed so much for his position. Too much to have it thrown away by an uppity copper with daddy issues.
He pounded on Daniel Riley’s door. Pounded and pounded until Daniel finally opened the door, hissing, “What’re you thinking, idiot? Get the fuck out of here.”
Vic tried to slip inside, but Riley blocked him with his body. “Let me in, Dan. I need to hide.”
“Not in here. Hunt’s after your blood. You aren’t bringing the CID on our hideyhole?”
“Jesus-” Vic tried to elbow past. Riley pushed him back onto the pavement. “What the hell?” His hands were balled into fists, but Vic knew better than to use them. Riley was the size of a small bear. About as good at tearing a man apart too. So Vic breathed and smiled and said, “Come on, Dan. Favor for an old friend. Think of all the Mortons have done for you.”
“The Morton Brothers are dead, Vic. Their history with me doesn’t mean shit anymore.”
Nobody talked like this to him, nobody. Not anymore.
“Let me in, Riley.”
He never should have left the gun in the field. It could’ve opened a few doors right now.
But Riley pulled the door shut with muttered curse, and Vic knew he could beat his hands against that door until his fists were bloody. It wouldn’t open. The street felt colder than it had five minutes ago. There were other men, other miserable bastards who owed Vic for his generosity, who’d taken everything Vic gave them with a smile and a promise that they’d remember this. Lying, cheating, cutthroat bastards who weren’t worth the food that kept them alive. They wouldn’t help him now that he was nothing. If Riley had turned, they all had. He was alone.
Fine. He did better on his own.
Just get out of the city. He knew where he could get a car, ways to get one that weren’t sway to public opinion. Whether Vic was down and out was irrelevant to whether he could smash a window or a few fingers. There would always be places in Manchester that respected that. Vic set off south. The wind pushed him along, a gentle force at his back keeping him going forward, and he couldn’t help but think that it was a sign from the universe. Keep doing what you’re doing, Vic. It always turns out well in the end.
But the streets were quiet, oddly so. It made it harder to remain unseen when you were the only person on the sidewalk. Vic kept to the back roads and alleys, but even here there should be people. There was no one, though, not even the scum of the earth that lived here. Vic walked twenty blocks and never saw a soul besides his own shadow. Now and then, in the corner of his eye, he’d see a flash of red and twirl around, expecting to see that bitch of a policewoman had tracked him down again. It was always nothing, nothing except the flickers of an overactive mind that had learned the value of paranoia a long time ago. False alarms or not, they set Vic’s teeth on edge, made him move his feet just a little bit faster. The wind blew colder now. Harder as well. It slapped against his back, slid iced hands down his shirt, and pushed him on and on and on until he thought that he couldn’t walk any way other than the way he was going.
There was a shock of red in the window of a store and Vic’s heart nearly tore itself out of his chest. Nothing. Nothing, it was nothing. He was acting like his Sammy now, jumping at monsters in the shadow. A blackness settled on Vic’s chest at the thought. He’d never see his son again, not if Hunt and that fucking DI had their way. Sammy would grow up without him, no father figure to steer him right. Ruth was a good woman-a better woman than he deserved, he could admit that-but it was too much to ask of her to raise his boy on her own. She wasn’t strong enough for that. Who knew what Sammy would become?
The streets twisted under Vic’s feet as he stamped his way. It was lucky that no one was around him, lucky for them. Vic wanted to slam his fist into something soft. He wanted to beat something until it stopped moving. His family. That fucking madman of a copper stole Vic’s family.
The plan changed. Get out of Manchester moved lower on the list. Step one was still get a gun. Step two became to use it on Tyler until the bastard stopped twitching.
There was red again, and by the time he whirled to face it, it was gone. But Vic knew. Vic wasn’t stupid, didn’t get to where he was by ignoring the signs. Someone was following him. And they must have known that he knew. They were playing with him. His stomach twisted. His heart clenched.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
He was going to handle this calmly and rationally.
Something laughed behind him. Vic sprinted. He ran until the buildings blurred and the streets melted together. He ran until his lungs seared and his legs shook and then he ran further. He ran until he ran out of the city he knew, out of the streets he spent his life. This twisting dark labyrinth he sprinted through was foreign to him. These cobblestones were unfamiliar. The air smelled wrong. And Vic wanted nothing more than to stop and just breathe, but he couldn’t stop here. Wherever this place was, he couldn’t stop here.
And whenever he spared a glance backward, blinking into the howling wind, he saw that flash of red before it disappeared.
Then suddenly, he recognized the stench on the air. The canal. He’d found his way here. Where along it he was, he couldn’t be sure, but he could follow it to safer streets, streets where he could lose his tracker or lure them into the right place and take care of them a different way. Air scraped his lungs as he forced it in and out, his legs screamed with the effort of running, but he pressed on because he could not explain it and he didn’t want to try, but the thought of being caught by that thing in red was more terrifying right now than falling into the hands of the cops.
He thought about looking back again. He couldn’t.
His knees buckled. He hit the concrete full force, fire rushing up his legs. He couldn’t run anymore, not like this, not with his lungs sandpapered and his legs turned to jelly. He tried to stand, failed, tried again. They shook under him and sent him down again. Vic gasped with pain. He had to keep moving, he had to. He knew this with more certainty than he knew his own name. He crawled.
He could swear he heard someone giggle behind him, but the street was silent. It was empty, dead empty, in Manchester at three in the afternoon and that was not right. The pavement should be packed. These windows should be open. The buildings that lined the canal were shuttered and dark, and no one came when Vic cried out.
He couldn’t go on. He had to, but he couldn’t. He was too tired, too thirsty. If he could just get some water, he thought. The thought grew obsessive-it beat itself against his skull. If he could just get some water, if he could just get some water, if he could just get some water, then he would be fine. And the canal, filth and rubbish made damp, looked more and more appealing.
One sip. Just one. Then he could run again. Vic dragged himself to the water, inch by inch, breath by breath. The pavement that dug into his knees and palms felt like broken glass. Behind him, he heard the giggle again.
“Who are you?” he screamed. The silence of the street swallowed his words. “Where the fuck are you?” He jerked his head around, but there was no one there but the shadows in the alleys. Anger pushed him to his feet, his legs quivering underneath him. He took a staggering step towards the water, then another. Just one drink, just one sip. He grasped at the railing and collapsed against it, staring into the cool blue water. He’d never seen it so clear before.
There was something red floating in the water. Vic knew he should run, but he couldn’t, couldn’t bring his legs to move, couldn’t bring his eyes to turn away. The thing rolled over, and he saw it was a little girl. Her long blonde hair fanned out, halo-like in the water, but her skin was pale, her face bloated, her eyes glazed with the film of death. In her arms, she clutched a small clown doll. It stared up at him.
“Do you like swimming?” she asked.
Vic could not respond. His throat would not let the words out.
She giggled up at him. “Don’t pretend I’m the first girl you’ve seen floating in the canal.”
No. No, this wasn’t happening. This was a dream and he was going to wake up with Ruth nuzzling up against him and little Sammy hopping into bed with them and that fucking detective’s blood cooling on a street somewhere.
The little girl sighed. “Oh, Vic. You never learn.” She smiled up at him and Vic flinched. “Don’t be scared. I’m a friend.” And she was right. He shouldn’t be scared. It was ridiculous that he ever was. This situation, it was making him crazy. This girl, she looked so innocent, so pure. She looked like the daughter that Vic had always planned on having. She smiled again and Vic couldn’t help smiling back. He wasn’t afraid anymore. “Do you want to escape?”
Vic’s throat loosened. “More than anything.”
What lunged out of the water was not a child. It was not anything. It grabbed Vic in its claws and teeth and wings. He beat himself against it, screamed his mouth bloody, but the thing’s body muffled him. The air thickened until he gasped for air. And then together they fell backwards and hit the water without a splash.
As Vic sank, he heard the laughter once more and a voice spoke in his ear. “I’m a friend, a very good friend. But I’m not yours.” He felt the press on lips against his cheek as the world went red.
Title: Down by the Water
Word Count: 1,800
Rating: Blue Cortina
Summary: Immediately post 1x08. Vic's plans for escape get sidetracked as he's stalked by a figure in red.
Notes: It's still a holiday fic, just inspired by a different holiday. Christmas is lovely and my favorite time of the year, but sometimes you're more in the mood for Halloween.
Vic knew the rules. Get out of Manchester. Now. By rights, he should be gone already, should have hoofed it in the woods the second that nutter let him go. DI Tyler. Vic should have checked for bullets. He should have done things right.
That didn’t matter now. He needed money. He needed a gun. He couldn’t survive on the run without either one, not with the men he’d burned to climb this high. Without some insurance, his enemies would have his head on a platter, a literal platter, by the end of the week. God, Vic had sacrificed so much for his position. Too much to have it thrown away by an uppity copper with daddy issues.
He pounded on Daniel Riley’s door. Pounded and pounded until Daniel finally opened the door, hissing, “What’re you thinking, idiot? Get the fuck out of here.”
Vic tried to slip inside, but Riley blocked him with his body. “Let me in, Dan. I need to hide.”
“Not in here. Hunt’s after your blood. You aren’t bringing the CID on our hideyhole?”
“Jesus-” Vic tried to elbow past. Riley pushed him back onto the pavement. “What the hell?” His hands were balled into fists, but Vic knew better than to use them. Riley was the size of a small bear. About as good at tearing a man apart too. So Vic breathed and smiled and said, “Come on, Dan. Favor for an old friend. Think of all the Mortons have done for you.”
“The Morton Brothers are dead, Vic. Their history with me doesn’t mean shit anymore.”
Nobody talked like this to him, nobody. Not anymore.
“Let me in, Riley.”
He never should have left the gun in the field. It could’ve opened a few doors right now.
But Riley pulled the door shut with muttered curse, and Vic knew he could beat his hands against that door until his fists were bloody. It wouldn’t open. The street felt colder than it had five minutes ago. There were other men, other miserable bastards who owed Vic for his generosity, who’d taken everything Vic gave them with a smile and a promise that they’d remember this. Lying, cheating, cutthroat bastards who weren’t worth the food that kept them alive. They wouldn’t help him now that he was nothing. If Riley had turned, they all had. He was alone.
Fine. He did better on his own.
Just get out of the city. He knew where he could get a car, ways to get one that weren’t sway to public opinion. Whether Vic was down and out was irrelevant to whether he could smash a window or a few fingers. There would always be places in Manchester that respected that. Vic set off south. The wind pushed him along, a gentle force at his back keeping him going forward, and he couldn’t help but think that it was a sign from the universe. Keep doing what you’re doing, Vic. It always turns out well in the end.
But the streets were quiet, oddly so. It made it harder to remain unseen when you were the only person on the sidewalk. Vic kept to the back roads and alleys, but even here there should be people. There was no one, though, not even the scum of the earth that lived here. Vic walked twenty blocks and never saw a soul besides his own shadow. Now and then, in the corner of his eye, he’d see a flash of red and twirl around, expecting to see that bitch of a policewoman had tracked him down again. It was always nothing, nothing except the flickers of an overactive mind that had learned the value of paranoia a long time ago. False alarms or not, they set Vic’s teeth on edge, made him move his feet just a little bit faster. The wind blew colder now. Harder as well. It slapped against his back, slid iced hands down his shirt, and pushed him on and on and on until he thought that he couldn’t walk any way other than the way he was going.
There was a shock of red in the window of a store and Vic’s heart nearly tore itself out of his chest. Nothing. Nothing, it was nothing. He was acting like his Sammy now, jumping at monsters in the shadow. A blackness settled on Vic’s chest at the thought. He’d never see his son again, not if Hunt and that fucking DI had their way. Sammy would grow up without him, no father figure to steer him right. Ruth was a good woman-a better woman than he deserved, he could admit that-but it was too much to ask of her to raise his boy on her own. She wasn’t strong enough for that. Who knew what Sammy would become?
The streets twisted under Vic’s feet as he stamped his way. It was lucky that no one was around him, lucky for them. Vic wanted to slam his fist into something soft. He wanted to beat something until it stopped moving. His family. That fucking madman of a copper stole Vic’s family.
The plan changed. Get out of Manchester moved lower on the list. Step one was still get a gun. Step two became to use it on Tyler until the bastard stopped twitching.
There was red again, and by the time he whirled to face it, it was gone. But Vic knew. Vic wasn’t stupid, didn’t get to where he was by ignoring the signs. Someone was following him. And they must have known that he knew. They were playing with him. His stomach twisted. His heart clenched.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
He was going to handle this calmly and rationally.
Something laughed behind him. Vic sprinted. He ran until the buildings blurred and the streets melted together. He ran until his lungs seared and his legs shook and then he ran further. He ran until he ran out of the city he knew, out of the streets he spent his life. This twisting dark labyrinth he sprinted through was foreign to him. These cobblestones were unfamiliar. The air smelled wrong. And Vic wanted nothing more than to stop and just breathe, but he couldn’t stop here. Wherever this place was, he couldn’t stop here.
And whenever he spared a glance backward, blinking into the howling wind, he saw that flash of red before it disappeared.
Then suddenly, he recognized the stench on the air. The canal. He’d found his way here. Where along it he was, he couldn’t be sure, but he could follow it to safer streets, streets where he could lose his tracker or lure them into the right place and take care of them a different way. Air scraped his lungs as he forced it in and out, his legs screamed with the effort of running, but he pressed on because he could not explain it and he didn’t want to try, but the thought of being caught by that thing in red was more terrifying right now than falling into the hands of the cops.
He thought about looking back again. He couldn’t.
His knees buckled. He hit the concrete full force, fire rushing up his legs. He couldn’t run anymore, not like this, not with his lungs sandpapered and his legs turned to jelly. He tried to stand, failed, tried again. They shook under him and sent him down again. Vic gasped with pain. He had to keep moving, he had to. He knew this with more certainty than he knew his own name. He crawled.
He could swear he heard someone giggle behind him, but the street was silent. It was empty, dead empty, in Manchester at three in the afternoon and that was not right. The pavement should be packed. These windows should be open. The buildings that lined the canal were shuttered and dark, and no one came when Vic cried out.
He couldn’t go on. He had to, but he couldn’t. He was too tired, too thirsty. If he could just get some water, he thought. The thought grew obsessive-it beat itself against his skull. If he could just get some water, if he could just get some water, if he could just get some water, then he would be fine. And the canal, filth and rubbish made damp, looked more and more appealing.
One sip. Just one. Then he could run again. Vic dragged himself to the water, inch by inch, breath by breath. The pavement that dug into his knees and palms felt like broken glass. Behind him, he heard the giggle again.
“Who are you?” he screamed. The silence of the street swallowed his words. “Where the fuck are you?” He jerked his head around, but there was no one there but the shadows in the alleys. Anger pushed him to his feet, his legs quivering underneath him. He took a staggering step towards the water, then another. Just one drink, just one sip. He grasped at the railing and collapsed against it, staring into the cool blue water. He’d never seen it so clear before.
There was something red floating in the water. Vic knew he should run, but he couldn’t, couldn’t bring his legs to move, couldn’t bring his eyes to turn away. The thing rolled over, and he saw it was a little girl. Her long blonde hair fanned out, halo-like in the water, but her skin was pale, her face bloated, her eyes glazed with the film of death. In her arms, she clutched a small clown doll. It stared up at him.
“Do you like swimming?” she asked.
Vic could not respond. His throat would not let the words out.
She giggled up at him. “Don’t pretend I’m the first girl you’ve seen floating in the canal.”
No. No, this wasn’t happening. This was a dream and he was going to wake up with Ruth nuzzling up against him and little Sammy hopping into bed with them and that fucking detective’s blood cooling on a street somewhere.
The little girl sighed. “Oh, Vic. You never learn.” She smiled up at him and Vic flinched. “Don’t be scared. I’m a friend.” And she was right. He shouldn’t be scared. It was ridiculous that he ever was. This situation, it was making him crazy. This girl, she looked so innocent, so pure. She looked like the daughter that Vic had always planned on having. She smiled again and Vic couldn’t help smiling back. He wasn’t afraid anymore. “Do you want to escape?”
Vic’s throat loosened. “More than anything.”
What lunged out of the water was not a child. It was not anything. It grabbed Vic in its claws and teeth and wings. He beat himself against it, screamed his mouth bloody, but the thing’s body muffled him. The air thickened until he gasped for air. And then together they fell backwards and hit the water without a splash.
As Vic sank, he heard the laughter once more and a voice spoke in his ear. “I’m a friend, a very good friend. But I’m not yours.” He felt the press on lips against his cheek as the world went red.