Fic: Black and Red, by angeweeks, Brown Cortina (I think)
Title: Black and Red
Author: angeweeks
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 879
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: I would plump for Brown Cortina, but let me know if you think differently...
Disclaimer: BBC and Kudos win at life. But if these two fellas were mine, they'd be locked in the cupboard under the stairs. With me. :D
Summary: It's all gone a bit dark.
A/N: Why, hello there. Long time, no input from me...but it's nice to be back. Looks like I am all recovered from my operation, anyhoo.
I have to warn you now and say this is not my usual happy happy joy joy porn-style contribution. It could be considered a little bleak. Just wanted to mention that. And also - completely different to anything else I have written. It was something I felt I had to try. As usual, this fic was brought to you by raging insomnia. Concrit welcome. But be gentle with me...if anything is hideously wrong with it, I'll blame the after-effects of the anaesthetic...and yes I do know it's four weeks later ;)
He stands in the darkness, watching the house.
At first he had kept his distance; watching from the other side of the road, away from the property. Staying out of the pallid amber beams cast down by the lamplight. Hovering nervously in the shadows; trying to blend into their existence.
But as the weeks went by, he became bolder. He registered the nocturnal activities of all the residents within the vicinity; committed them to memory with his usual efficiency. A member of Her Majesty's police force should always be on the ball. Prepared for all eventualities.
He watched with detachment one night as the woman threw her suitcases in the back of the car, sliding into the front seat with obvious relief. He saw the driver lean over and kiss her before speeding off, the night enveloping them. He knew the house would be solely occupied from then on. He knew when the street would be deserted.
Which was how he came to find himself hiding alongside the garden shed, back pressed against the brickwork. So near to his target, but still able to shelter in the shades of black strewn across the yard.
At first he was content to watch. Just keep an eye. Record all movements. Be a good copper.
But it was never enough. Since his return, nothing had been enough. What he came back for didn't exist anymore. So neither did he.
As the months unfurled, he had ceased to think. Ceased to feel. Everything was black and red. His mind was full of variations of the colours. No more, no less.
A constant violation of all his memory and intelligence had once been. Suffocated in black and red.
Red dress. Black presence.
He couldn't be there. Couldn't even get through the door most nights. He would press his ear against the fragile wood, hearing the presence of evil burgeoning from a simple dot; spreading across the room, flowing tendrils reaching for him, thick and black and nearly at the door, pleading for his acquiescence.
That was always the moment when he would run.
Run; his legs pumping, making the decisions. Always bringing him back. Back to these shadows, back to the exact same place; seeing the lights in the house flick on and off in their strange rhythm, a display of welcome in his head.
Back to watching the only thing he was convinced would save him.
Now he stands in the yard, willing himself to make this time different. Not to let the darkness pierce his heart. But he knows he won't feel the pain that should follow such an action. Not when this insidious disease benights him. He knows the inevitable outcome.
The flicker of movement across the bedroom window draws his gaze upwards. Blankly he watches Hunt begin to undress, first throwing his shirt to the floor. Since the wife left, he no longer bothers to draw the curtains at night. He stands in exactly the same place every time, taking his clothes off in the same order.
A good copper notices these things.
He maintains his watchful gaze until Hunt finishes his routine; waiting for the last part. The light goes out, and now he knows the other man has climbed into bed, oblivious to the fact that he is being watched.
That same thought comes to him every night, at exactly the same time. And it always leads to the same conclusion.
He is aware of his hand reaching for his fly, but as ever feels nothing as it pulls down the zip and reaches inside. It is an automatic and futile gesture. He wraps his slender hand around himself, each movement of his fingers along his length incorporating his colours. Black and red. Anger and hatred and lust and coldness all twisting in the same rhythm, for it is only in these few moments he feels what the black and red means. The only time he feels at all, thinking of his naked DCI.
These colours overwhelm, pressing against the back of his eyes. Yet still he resists the need to close them, keeping his dark gaze on the bedroom window. There is no emotion, or feeling now, just flashes - red; black; red; black - which urge him on, faster and harder, purposely hurting himself as he pulls and twists, until he feels the burning and spills his own seed into the hand.
As he looks down, there is a flicker of surprise somewhere in a corner of his soul that the substance is white. He feels the same tiny glint every time, but it perpetually withers and dies.
He tucks himself away, fastens his trousers, and drops his hand to his side. He never finds it necessary to clean himself up, but instead lets the fluid drip freely down his fingers, falling to the ground if it so pleases.
He dry-heaves seven times; the number he has found best to soothe the surge of colour trying to find an outlet. Black, cold, decayed bile; or possibly red, angry, blazing blood. He neither knows nor cares.
Sam turns to open the back gate and leave, unaware of a small spark in the darkness of the bedroom window, followed by a yellow flame that coaxes a cigarette into being.
Author: angeweeks
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 879
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: I would plump for Brown Cortina, but let me know if you think differently...
Disclaimer: BBC and Kudos win at life. But if these two fellas were mine, they'd be locked in the cupboard under the stairs. With me. :D
Summary: It's all gone a bit dark.
A/N: Why, hello there. Long time, no input from me...but it's nice to be back. Looks like I am all recovered from my operation, anyhoo.
I have to warn you now and say this is not my usual happy happy joy joy porn-style contribution. It could be considered a little bleak. Just wanted to mention that. And also - completely different to anything else I have written. It was something I felt I had to try. As usual, this fic was brought to you by raging insomnia. Concrit welcome. But be gentle with me...if anything is hideously wrong with it, I'll blame the after-effects of the anaesthetic...and yes I do know it's four weeks later ;)
He stands in the darkness, watching the house.
At first he had kept his distance; watching from the other side of the road, away from the property. Staying out of the pallid amber beams cast down by the lamplight. Hovering nervously in the shadows; trying to blend into their existence.
But as the weeks went by, he became bolder. He registered the nocturnal activities of all the residents within the vicinity; committed them to memory with his usual efficiency. A member of Her Majesty's police force should always be on the ball. Prepared for all eventualities.
He watched with detachment one night as the woman threw her suitcases in the back of the car, sliding into the front seat with obvious relief. He saw the driver lean over and kiss her before speeding off, the night enveloping them. He knew the house would be solely occupied from then on. He knew when the street would be deserted.
Which was how he came to find himself hiding alongside the garden shed, back pressed against the brickwork. So near to his target, but still able to shelter in the shades of black strewn across the yard.
At first he was content to watch. Just keep an eye. Record all movements. Be a good copper.
But it was never enough. Since his return, nothing had been enough. What he came back for didn't exist anymore. So neither did he.
As the months unfurled, he had ceased to think. Ceased to feel. Everything was black and red. His mind was full of variations of the colours. No more, no less.
A constant violation of all his memory and intelligence had once been. Suffocated in black and red.
Red dress. Black presence.
He couldn't be there. Couldn't even get through the door most nights. He would press his ear against the fragile wood, hearing the presence of evil burgeoning from a simple dot; spreading across the room, flowing tendrils reaching for him, thick and black and nearly at the door, pleading for his acquiescence.
That was always the moment when he would run.
Run; his legs pumping, making the decisions. Always bringing him back. Back to these shadows, back to the exact same place; seeing the lights in the house flick on and off in their strange rhythm, a display of welcome in his head.
Back to watching the only thing he was convinced would save him.
Now he stands in the yard, willing himself to make this time different. Not to let the darkness pierce his heart. But he knows he won't feel the pain that should follow such an action. Not when this insidious disease benights him. He knows the inevitable outcome.
The flicker of movement across the bedroom window draws his gaze upwards. Blankly he watches Hunt begin to undress, first throwing his shirt to the floor. Since the wife left, he no longer bothers to draw the curtains at night. He stands in exactly the same place every time, taking his clothes off in the same order.
A good copper notices these things.
He maintains his watchful gaze until Hunt finishes his routine; waiting for the last part. The light goes out, and now he knows the other man has climbed into bed, oblivious to the fact that he is being watched.
That same thought comes to him every night, at exactly the same time. And it always leads to the same conclusion.
He is aware of his hand reaching for his fly, but as ever feels nothing as it pulls down the zip and reaches inside. It is an automatic and futile gesture. He wraps his slender hand around himself, each movement of his fingers along his length incorporating his colours. Black and red. Anger and hatred and lust and coldness all twisting in the same rhythm, for it is only in these few moments he feels what the black and red means. The only time he feels at all, thinking of his naked DCI.
These colours overwhelm, pressing against the back of his eyes. Yet still he resists the need to close them, keeping his dark gaze on the bedroom window. There is no emotion, or feeling now, just flashes - red; black; red; black - which urge him on, faster and harder, purposely hurting himself as he pulls and twists, until he feels the burning and spills his own seed into the hand.
As he looks down, there is a flicker of surprise somewhere in a corner of his soul that the substance is white. He feels the same tiny glint every time, but it perpetually withers and dies.
He tucks himself away, fastens his trousers, and drops his hand to his side. He never finds it necessary to clean himself up, but instead lets the fluid drip freely down his fingers, falling to the ground if it so pleases.
He dry-heaves seven times; the number he has found best to soothe the surge of colour trying to find an outlet. Black, cold, decayed bile; or possibly red, angry, blazing blood. He neither knows nor cares.
Sam turns to open the back gate and leave, unaware of a small spark in the darkness of the bedroom window, followed by a yellow flame that coaxes a cigarette into being.