Your Water Is Her Blood, a Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Fanfic
Title: Your Water Is Her Blood
Author: riais
Rating: M
Warnings: language, for now, and a decent amount of blood imagery
Characters: Harry, Perry, and Harmony
Disclaimer: Don’t own it, never will
Summary: He wants to say he would never do such a thing, but does he know himself well enough to know he isn’t the bad guy? After all, how can you say you didn’t do it if you can’t remember the last eighteen months of your life, let alone last night?
Author's Notes:
Case!/Amnesia! Fic with angst and other things thrown in. Not really focusing on any pairing, but feel free to interpret the story as you wish. Also, I've set the story as if everything in the movie actually happened December of '05, and the memory loss goes back even before the events of the movie, so a year and a half later its Jan '07.
Any and all comments and critique is very very much appreciated. I want to know what you think, so please tell me how I might improve (especially in the grammar department).
Part 1, A:
In which we (again) meet Harry, who is not his usual self
He was awake, but not really. He was asleep, but wasn’t sleeping either.
Someone called his name.
His eyelids flickered open, and he gazed confusedly straight ahead of him, eyes unfocused, scene blurry. He was in a car, he realized; he could feel the seat belt biting into his neck. But it didn’t hurt, not like it usually hurts when you wake up and there’s that damn seat belt there, rubbing your skin raw. It didn’t hurt mostly because it wasn’t painful enough. It wasn’t painful enough because, as it turned out, every-last part of him was (enough painful, that is). And he didn’t just feel soreness. He felt fucking pain.
“Fuuuck…” he moaned loudly, leaning forward, the seat belt biting into his neck even more (but it wasn’t like he noticed anyway. It didn’t hurt enough). What he did notice, though, was all the blood coming from God knows where.
Where those bullet holes in his chest? He prodded at one of them with a sort of detached, morbid curiosity. He then cursed some more and decided that prodding your own wounds wasn’t exactly a bright idea.
Not that he was bright anyway, but-
“Awake, princess?” a voice said, “I was afraid I might have to start kissing you again.”
Harry turned his head (his aching, throbbing, sore head) in the direction of the driver. He just looked at him confusedly, unfocused and blurry.
Harry then found himself wondering if unfocused and blurry weren’t the same thing. Not apparently, because unfocused and blurry the driver was.
Harry almost snickered. He’d sounded like Yoda right then.
The driver obviously took Harry’s lack of coherency as stupidity, “It was a joke, idiot.” He explained, “I had to do CPR.” The driver then turned his blurry (and unfocused) head back to what Harry supposed was the road. Harry looked out the window at the road too.
Yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow
Harry’s eyelids began to droop.
Gray, yellow, gray, gray
Huh. He’d missed a yellow.
Yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yell-
“Don’t fall asleep, Harry,” the voice warned, “don’t you do it.”
“Why the fuck not?” he asked groggily, “Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?”
“I saved you, moron, and am in the process of saving you still, and if you’re not gonna do what I say I can toss you right back on the street where I found you.”
“Hey, fuck you,” he muttered, “If you want to get rid of me that easily then drop me off at the hospital and be on your merry way. I can take care of myself.”
The driver’s voice took on an air of annoyance. “Cool it, Princess, you don’t have to get all sensitive. Jesus.”
He was about to retort with something witty, but couldn’t really think of anything useful. In his quest for sarcasm, Harry found himself thinking about what he was doing with this prick and how he’d managed to find himself in this situation in the first place. The more he thought about it, though, the foggier the air around him seemed. Harry frowned. Where was he? And where was he being taken?
A hospital, hopefully, he thought.
He looked back down at his bloodstained shirt. An errant thought remarked somewhere in his head that it was ruined.
But that was okay, because he didn’t like white shirts anyway, especially button ups. Why the hell was he wearing a button up anyway? Harry was quite sure he didn’t own any.
A snapping of fingers drew Harry’s thoughts away from his shirt, “Hey, stay with me. I need you conscious.” The man actually looked nervous, like he cared, or some shit like that.
“What do you care?” He muttered again, his words running together.
The man looked a tad peeved, “What do I care? What the fuck Harry, do you not want my help? Was I supposed to just leave you lying in the gutter, bleeding to death?”
“Don’t know why it had to be someone like you, Jackass fuck.” He muttered and cussed some more, managing to add the next words on only after a long pause and some afterthought, “…don’t seem like the kind of person who just helps someone out off the street.”
This is where Harry realized that there was something very, very wrong with his current situation. The man, whose hand was clutching the steering wheel so tight that the knuckles began to turn white, looked familiar. Almost. But then again, almost familiar could be anyone. He’d never met the guy in his life.
Fuck. Or what if he really did know this jackass? What day was it? What year? His name?
Well, he knew his own name. He had to be okay if he knew his own name, right? Seriously, he’d never known of anybody with amnesia know exactly what his name was.
But then again, he only ever read fiction.
Shit.
“What do you mean ‘just someone off the street?’” Jack(ass) asked.
“Uh, well, shit,” Fuck. He needed to chew it over with a Twix bar or something, “That’s not what I said-”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Duh,” Harry managed to roll his eyes, “And if I didn’t before I do now. Great question, by the way. Fuck, I wonder if he heard me say his name, like, a thousand fucking times?”
“Cut the crap, Harry. What’s your last name?”
“What’s yours?” He retorted automatically.
Oops.
The car stopped suddenly, violently almost. The seat belt caught him (at least they’re good for something, Harry thought) and he was thrown back against his seat. He couldn’t control the hiss and the stream of curses that followed after.
Damn defense mechanism. Shit.
Jack(ass) put the car in park and turned toward him with a-well, Harry wasn’t quite sure what emotion he had on his face. It was like a mix of anger and fear.
Weird combination…and kind of funny. He fought the giggle that threatened to rise up in his throat.
“You better not be fucking around, Prick. I will throw your ass out of the car right now.” Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to speak. And he sure didn’t want to get thrown out of the car in the middle of what looked like the fucking desert (Where the fuck was he?). Never mind the fact that if he didn’t get to a hospital, like, pronto, he was probably going to die.
For some reason, that thought didn’t affect him as much as he thought it should have. Maybe he was high. That sounded nice to him, but then he wondered if he was just delirious. He was, after all, sitting in a lake of his own blood (well, maybe not that bad, but he was sure enough that it wasn’t just a ‘pool’. When you think ‘pool of blood,’ you think body-surrounding puddle. ‘Lake,’ on the other hand, has far more wider reaching imagery).
The man behind the wheel leaned closer to Harry, “Are you?”
“Am I what?” he asked defensively, attempting to scoot away. He didn’t get very far, though, owing to the door behind him and the amount of white-hot pain he found himself in. Harry whimpered and bit his lip.
“Fucking around.”
He shook his head ‘no.’
“Fuck.” The driver changed gears and the car pealed back onto the dusty road.
Silence had filled the car for only a few moments when the driver felt the need to speak again.
“Do you know what day it is? Year, even?”
“Um…” he looked out the window at the glaring sun, “August?” he guessed.
“Wrong,” said the driver, “What year?”
Harry’s eyebrows drew together across his forehead, “2005?” he asked anxiously.
There was an audible sigh through gritted teeth. “Way wrong.”
“How ‘way?’”
A few seconds (very long seconds) passed before the driver decided to speak again.
“Today’s date is January 15th, 2007.”
“What?” Harry blinked. He then blinked some more. He closed his jaw and swallowed. “What?”
“Two years?” He whispered.
“No, idiot.” The driver looked over at him in annoyance, “Can’t you count? Wait-no, don’t answer that. It’s better if I do it for you.” He turned his eyes back toward the road, “It’s been eighteen months-a year and a half.”
A year and a half.
The driver’s lips flattened into a thin line.
Harry could practically feel his gaze on him. He fidgeted and felt the sudden need to sink deeper into his seat.
“So I’m going to guess that you don’t remember what happened and you have no idea who I am.”
Harry didn’t say anything, but he was pretty sure the guilty and slightly confused look he offered said enough.
“Jesus-Fucking-Christ, Harry. This is starting to sound like a daytime soap opera.”
“If this was a soap opera,” Harry sank a little further into his seat, “You’d be…
“Were, Harry. ‘If this were a soap opera.’”
“Whatever.” Harry looked down at his shirt again, which had begun to seep more and more blood since the seat belt had caught him so fantastically (fucking seat belt, he found himself thinking), “You’d be the gorgeous mistress with the big boobs…” His breath came out in short spurts. He felt light headed, “And I’d be the brilliant doctor…or something.” He continued to watch the blood as it soaked further and further down his shirt.
The driver snorted, “I’m as much a woman as you are brilliant.”
“Ha-ha,” Harry said in mock laughter. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it because the space between them wasn’t just one seat, it was an eighteen month void.
“Do you remember anything at all, Harry?”
“Pieces,” he said, “snatches of words and pictures and sounds. Don’t know what they mean.”
They drove on for a few more moments without a sound.
And then, “They’re saying you killed a girl, Harry.”
But Harry didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard. He had abandoned the conversation for the swirls of blood falling and snaking and creeping down his chest, strings of blood unwinding like a spool of yarn in the paws of his niece’s kitten.
He saw blood.
Blood dripping down the splattered walls
Blood pooling around his shoes and the splash the blood-covered gun makes when he drops it to the ground; when it slips out of his slick, blood-drenched hand
Blood on the body-his blood and hers and its all his fault that she lying there, dead.
Blood, everywhere
“I think…I need a doctor.”
“We’re almost there. Stay with me, Harry.”
“I’m right here,” he said, barely audible, as his head dropped forward and his eyelids sagged over his eyes.
“It doesn’t sound like it, Harry. Harry!” The driver snapped his fingers again, “Harry, wake up!”
Nothing happened. Nothing would continue to happen. The tight lines on his face eased out like his worry and pain had left him for someone else. In just a few moments he was blissfully out, gone, and away. Voila!
Unconscious.
“Fuck.” Perry cursed under his breath and pushed the gas pedal a little closer to the floorboard.
“Fuck.”
---
~ To Be Continued~
---
There's my first try at a KKBB fanfic. Please tell me what you think.
Also, the "What's your name/What's yours" bit isn't mine. I saw it in a fic a long time ago, but it came to me and it was too good not to use.
Author: riais
Rating: M
Warnings: language, for now, and a decent amount of blood imagery
Characters: Harry, Perry, and Harmony
Disclaimer: Don’t own it, never will
Summary: He wants to say he would never do such a thing, but does he know himself well enough to know he isn’t the bad guy? After all, how can you say you didn’t do it if you can’t remember the last eighteen months of your life, let alone last night?
Author's Notes:
Case!/Amnesia! Fic with angst and other things thrown in. Not really focusing on any pairing, but feel free to interpret the story as you wish. Also, I've set the story as if everything in the movie actually happened December of '05, and the memory loss goes back even before the events of the movie, so a year and a half later its Jan '07.
Any and all comments and critique is very very much appreciated. I want to know what you think, so please tell me how I might improve (especially in the grammar department).
Part 1, A:
In which we (again) meet Harry, who is not his usual self
He was awake, but not really. He was asleep, but wasn’t sleeping either.
Someone called his name.
His eyelids flickered open, and he gazed confusedly straight ahead of him, eyes unfocused, scene blurry. He was in a car, he realized; he could feel the seat belt biting into his neck. But it didn’t hurt, not like it usually hurts when you wake up and there’s that damn seat belt there, rubbing your skin raw. It didn’t hurt mostly because it wasn’t painful enough. It wasn’t painful enough because, as it turned out, every-last part of him was (enough painful, that is). And he didn’t just feel soreness. He felt fucking pain.
“Fuuuck…” he moaned loudly, leaning forward, the seat belt biting into his neck even more (but it wasn’t like he noticed anyway. It didn’t hurt enough). What he did notice, though, was all the blood coming from God knows where.
Where those bullet holes in his chest? He prodded at one of them with a sort of detached, morbid curiosity. He then cursed some more and decided that prodding your own wounds wasn’t exactly a bright idea.
Not that he was bright anyway, but-
“Awake, princess?” a voice said, “I was afraid I might have to start kissing you again.”
Harry turned his head (his aching, throbbing, sore head) in the direction of the driver. He just looked at him confusedly, unfocused and blurry.
Harry then found himself wondering if unfocused and blurry weren’t the same thing. Not apparently, because unfocused and blurry the driver was.
Harry almost snickered. He’d sounded like Yoda right then.
The driver obviously took Harry’s lack of coherency as stupidity, “It was a joke, idiot.” He explained, “I had to do CPR.” The driver then turned his blurry (and unfocused) head back to what Harry supposed was the road. Harry looked out the window at the road too.
Yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow
Harry’s eyelids began to droop.
Gray, yellow, gray, gray
Huh. He’d missed a yellow.
Yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yellow, gray, yell-
“Don’t fall asleep, Harry,” the voice warned, “don’t you do it.”
“Why the fuck not?” he asked groggily, “Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?”
“I saved you, moron, and am in the process of saving you still, and if you’re not gonna do what I say I can toss you right back on the street where I found you.”
“Hey, fuck you,” he muttered, “If you want to get rid of me that easily then drop me off at the hospital and be on your merry way. I can take care of myself.”
The driver’s voice took on an air of annoyance. “Cool it, Princess, you don’t have to get all sensitive. Jesus.”
He was about to retort with something witty, but couldn’t really think of anything useful. In his quest for sarcasm, Harry found himself thinking about what he was doing with this prick and how he’d managed to find himself in this situation in the first place. The more he thought about it, though, the foggier the air around him seemed. Harry frowned. Where was he? And where was he being taken?
A hospital, hopefully, he thought.
He looked back down at his bloodstained shirt. An errant thought remarked somewhere in his head that it was ruined.
But that was okay, because he didn’t like white shirts anyway, especially button ups. Why the hell was he wearing a button up anyway? Harry was quite sure he didn’t own any.
A snapping of fingers drew Harry’s thoughts away from his shirt, “Hey, stay with me. I need you conscious.” The man actually looked nervous, like he cared, or some shit like that.
“What do you care?” He muttered again, his words running together.
The man looked a tad peeved, “What do I care? What the fuck Harry, do you not want my help? Was I supposed to just leave you lying in the gutter, bleeding to death?”
“Don’t know why it had to be someone like you, Jackass fuck.” He muttered and cussed some more, managing to add the next words on only after a long pause and some afterthought, “…don’t seem like the kind of person who just helps someone out off the street.”
This is where Harry realized that there was something very, very wrong with his current situation. The man, whose hand was clutching the steering wheel so tight that the knuckles began to turn white, looked familiar. Almost. But then again, almost familiar could be anyone. He’d never met the guy in his life.
Fuck. Or what if he really did know this jackass? What day was it? What year? His name?
Well, he knew his own name. He had to be okay if he knew his own name, right? Seriously, he’d never known of anybody with amnesia know exactly what his name was.
But then again, he only ever read fiction.
Shit.
“What do you mean ‘just someone off the street?’” Jack(ass) asked.
“Uh, well, shit,” Fuck. He needed to chew it over with a Twix bar or something, “That’s not what I said-”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Duh,” Harry managed to roll his eyes, “And if I didn’t before I do now. Great question, by the way. Fuck, I wonder if he heard me say his name, like, a thousand fucking times?”
“Cut the crap, Harry. What’s your last name?”
“What’s yours?” He retorted automatically.
Oops.
The car stopped suddenly, violently almost. The seat belt caught him (at least they’re good for something, Harry thought) and he was thrown back against his seat. He couldn’t control the hiss and the stream of curses that followed after.
Damn defense mechanism. Shit.
Jack(ass) put the car in park and turned toward him with a-well, Harry wasn’t quite sure what emotion he had on his face. It was like a mix of anger and fear.
Weird combination…and kind of funny. He fought the giggle that threatened to rise up in his throat.
“You better not be fucking around, Prick. I will throw your ass out of the car right now.” Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to speak. And he sure didn’t want to get thrown out of the car in the middle of what looked like the fucking desert (Where the fuck was he?). Never mind the fact that if he didn’t get to a hospital, like, pronto, he was probably going to die.
For some reason, that thought didn’t affect him as much as he thought it should have. Maybe he was high. That sounded nice to him, but then he wondered if he was just delirious. He was, after all, sitting in a lake of his own blood (well, maybe not that bad, but he was sure enough that it wasn’t just a ‘pool’. When you think ‘pool of blood,’ you think body-surrounding puddle. ‘Lake,’ on the other hand, has far more wider reaching imagery).
The man behind the wheel leaned closer to Harry, “Are you?”
“Am I what?” he asked defensively, attempting to scoot away. He didn’t get very far, though, owing to the door behind him and the amount of white-hot pain he found himself in. Harry whimpered and bit his lip.
“Fucking around.”
He shook his head ‘no.’
“Fuck.” The driver changed gears and the car pealed back onto the dusty road.
Silence had filled the car for only a few moments when the driver felt the need to speak again.
“Do you know what day it is? Year, even?”
“Um…” he looked out the window at the glaring sun, “August?” he guessed.
“Wrong,” said the driver, “What year?”
Harry’s eyebrows drew together across his forehead, “2005?” he asked anxiously.
There was an audible sigh through gritted teeth. “Way wrong.”
“How ‘way?’”
A few seconds (very long seconds) passed before the driver decided to speak again.
“Today’s date is January 15th, 2007.”
“What?” Harry blinked. He then blinked some more. He closed his jaw and swallowed. “What?”
“Two years?” He whispered.
“No, idiot.” The driver looked over at him in annoyance, “Can’t you count? Wait-no, don’t answer that. It’s better if I do it for you.” He turned his eyes back toward the road, “It’s been eighteen months-a year and a half.”
A year and a half.
The driver’s lips flattened into a thin line.
Harry could practically feel his gaze on him. He fidgeted and felt the sudden need to sink deeper into his seat.
“So I’m going to guess that you don’t remember what happened and you have no idea who I am.”
Harry didn’t say anything, but he was pretty sure the guilty and slightly confused look he offered said enough.
“Jesus-Fucking-Christ, Harry. This is starting to sound like a daytime soap opera.”
“If this was a soap opera,” Harry sank a little further into his seat, “You’d be…
“Were, Harry. ‘If this were a soap opera.’”
“Whatever.” Harry looked down at his shirt again, which had begun to seep more and more blood since the seat belt had caught him so fantastically (fucking seat belt, he found himself thinking), “You’d be the gorgeous mistress with the big boobs…” His breath came out in short spurts. He felt light headed, “And I’d be the brilliant doctor…or something.” He continued to watch the blood as it soaked further and further down his shirt.
The driver snorted, “I’m as much a woman as you are brilliant.”
“Ha-ha,” Harry said in mock laughter. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it because the space between them wasn’t just one seat, it was an eighteen month void.
“Do you remember anything at all, Harry?”
“Pieces,” he said, “snatches of words and pictures and sounds. Don’t know what they mean.”
They drove on for a few more moments without a sound.
And then, “They’re saying you killed a girl, Harry.”
But Harry didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard. He had abandoned the conversation for the swirls of blood falling and snaking and creeping down his chest, strings of blood unwinding like a spool of yarn in the paws of his niece’s kitten.
He saw blood.
Blood dripping down the splattered walls
Blood pooling around his shoes and the splash the blood-covered gun makes when he drops it to the ground; when it slips out of his slick, blood-drenched hand
Blood on the body-his blood and hers and its all his fault that she lying there, dead.
Blood, everywhere
“I think…I need a doctor.”
“We’re almost there. Stay with me, Harry.”
“I’m right here,” he said, barely audible, as his head dropped forward and his eyelids sagged over his eyes.
“It doesn’t sound like it, Harry. Harry!” The driver snapped his fingers again, “Harry, wake up!”
Nothing happened. Nothing would continue to happen. The tight lines on his face eased out like his worry and pain had left him for someone else. In just a few moments he was blissfully out, gone, and away. Voila!
Unconscious.
“Fuck.” Perry cursed under his breath and pushed the gas pedal a little closer to the floorboard.
“Fuck.”
---
~ To Be Continued~
---
There's my first try at a KKBB fanfic. Please tell me what you think.
Also, the "What's your name/What's yours" bit isn't mine. I saw it in a fic a long time ago, but it came to me and it was too good not to use.