Who Will You Run To? (fic!meme fic for dealing_death)
NOTE: Selene is dealing_death and is used with permission and great love. ILU BB!!!
Selene hated to be wrong, hated it above all things. More importantly, though, she hated to be wrong where it counted. Too often, she’d been guilty of as much, and too often people got hurt when she was…namely, people she cared about.
She should have known something was wrong when she could still look at Catherine.
It was after the binding that it started to happen, uncomfortable moments having lunch or talking on the phone when the sound of her voice or just picturing her face left her with a second vision: Tommy, pale and shaking. Tommy, crying out in pain. Tommy, reaching for her hand to make it better when it was because of Selene that he was suffering.
When she thought Michael was dead, she’d seen his face in every drop of blood she shed, fighting Markus. She hadn’t seen Tommy’s face until after with Catherine…until after he was in her blood and buried deep in her head, deeper than he could get merely through her body.
So she spent a week sniping at him, angry and bitter when he wasn’t to blame. Seven days where he didn’t share her bed, where she only got sharper and nastier the more patient and gentle he was. Every time he tried to talk to her, she saw his features ash white and slick with sweat. Every time he touched her, she could feel that poison slithering through his blood.
Catherine had hurt him, and she’d turned her back on it. She still trusted the woman, still loved the bitch, and yet she knew there was something wrong with it.
It finally ended the night she came home to find him sitting up, waiting for her. Fury raged in her blood, unchecked anger and unbearable pain because she still couldn’t look him in the eye.
You don’t deserve him…
She didn’t move, only watched as he rose from the couch and walked over to her. It was a little startling to realize how good he looked, when she knew from experience how the kind of chill that had filled their house for the last week could take its toll.
“Babe…”
“Don’t. Just…don’t.” she spat, wishing she could make her tone more welcoming, warm and loving. She just wanted to stop being angry…to stop hating herself…
“Babe…” He trailed off, then with a small, bitter sort of laugh spread his arms. He looked so helpless, so lost…
“Who else is it gonna be?”
It would have angered her normally, but there was no arrogance or anger in the question. It was just that: lost and helpless. It wasn’t an accusation, but a statement of how blissfully, horribly screwed they both were, now more than ever before. There was no hope for either of them…only for the both of them. Since that first night waiting in line to get into a club, when her pain had sucker-punched him in the gut, they’d been tied. Savior and saved, lost soul and guardian angel, man and woman…husband and wife.
The rage finally cracked and the tears finally seeped through, and she stumbled as she took that first step.
“Tommy…”
He said nothing, just opened his arms, and with a sob she finally stopped trying to run away from him, running instead to the last place she would ever call home.
Selene hated to be wrong, hated it above all things. More importantly, though, she hated to be wrong where it counted. Too often, she’d been guilty of as much, and too often people got hurt when she was…namely, people she cared about.
She should have known something was wrong when she could still look at Catherine.
It was after the binding that it started to happen, uncomfortable moments having lunch or talking on the phone when the sound of her voice or just picturing her face left her with a second vision: Tommy, pale and shaking. Tommy, crying out in pain. Tommy, reaching for her hand to make it better when it was because of Selene that he was suffering.
When she thought Michael was dead, she’d seen his face in every drop of blood she shed, fighting Markus. She hadn’t seen Tommy’s face until after with Catherine…until after he was in her blood and buried deep in her head, deeper than he could get merely through her body.
So she spent a week sniping at him, angry and bitter when he wasn’t to blame. Seven days where he didn’t share her bed, where she only got sharper and nastier the more patient and gentle he was. Every time he tried to talk to her, she saw his features ash white and slick with sweat. Every time he touched her, she could feel that poison slithering through his blood.
Catherine had hurt him, and she’d turned her back on it. She still trusted the woman, still loved the bitch, and yet she knew there was something wrong with it.
It finally ended the night she came home to find him sitting up, waiting for her. Fury raged in her blood, unchecked anger and unbearable pain because she still couldn’t look him in the eye.
You don’t deserve him…
She didn’t move, only watched as he rose from the couch and walked over to her. It was a little startling to realize how good he looked, when she knew from experience how the kind of chill that had filled their house for the last week could take its toll.
“Babe…”
“Don’t. Just…don’t.” she spat, wishing she could make her tone more welcoming, warm and loving. She just wanted to stop being angry…to stop hating herself…
“Babe…” He trailed off, then with a small, bitter sort of laugh spread his arms. He looked so helpless, so lost…
“Who else is it gonna be?”
It would have angered her normally, but there was no arrogance or anger in the question. It was just that: lost and helpless. It wasn’t an accusation, but a statement of how blissfully, horribly screwed they both were, now more than ever before. There was no hope for either of them…only for the both of them. Since that first night waiting in line to get into a club, when her pain had sucker-punched him in the gut, they’d been tied. Savior and saved, lost soul and guardian angel, man and woman…husband and wife.
The rage finally cracked and the tears finally seeped through, and she stumbled as she took that first step.
“Tommy…”
He said nothing, just opened his arms, and with a sob she finally stopped trying to run away from him, running instead to the last place she would ever call home.