just_1_word | 13.7. Emotion
13.7. Emotion
Co-written with agentsullivan
[Follows THIS]
Ali held up a shaky hand up, her other clenched in a tight fist at her side. “Don’t fucking look at me! So help me god, if you do, a fucking concussion will be the least of your worries!” she hissed, her head turned away from Marc’s general direction. She took a few more ragged breaths and started pacing, about ready to have a nervous breakdown.
Marc was sitting hunched over on the edge of the sofa, an icepack pressed to his eye where she had belted him one. He was lucky to have the first aid. She had left him lying unconscious in her doorway for close to half an hour before her consience kicked in through the shock and she got him an icepack when he came to. Since then, there had been silence as he perched awkwardly waiting for her to say something… anything. He dropped his eyes down to his lap so he wasn’t looking at her. He was pretty sure if he kept watching her anyway he would cry. He felt like such a stranger and having Ali treat him like a criminal hurt more than he wanted to admit, even if it was all his own fault. “Who’s the guy?” he asked quietly.
“NO!” Ali spat, waving her hand angrily and rounded to give him the most horrific look she was sure she ever managed in her entire life. “You don’t get to just fucking throw questions like ‘Who’s the guy?’ at me! You’re fucking dead! You’re fucking dead, James! DEAD!” She threw her hands over her face to break down into painful sobs. This wasn’t happening. It was like she was trapped in some horrible nightmare and couldn’t wake up out of it.
“Ali-” Marc tried, now wishing he had never gone through with this. Ali had obviously tried to deal with his ‘death’ and had moved on with her life. His stupid error of judgement had been nothing but selfishness. No, it went beyond that. He hadn’t thought of it distinctly enough from Ali’s side and now he had fucking caused her all this pain.
“SHUT UP!” Ali screamed and slumped against the wall, sliding down it until she was able to hug herself into a small ball, face buried in the crook of her arm. But it was only a few moments before he lifted her head and fixed him with a cold, furious glare over the top of her arm. “Don’t you fucking move or talk or even breathe loudly until I am ready to listen to you. You walk out of here and I’ll hunt you down and make sure you really know what it feels like to be murdered, you poor excuse for a fucking pile of shit! And take the goddamn fucking contacts before I scratch your eyeballs out of their sockets! It’s not you! I need to fucking see your eyes!” She swiped her hands across her eyes and was on her feet again, stalking across the room to hall, her eyes never leaving him. She reached into the cupboard and blindly punched in the safe combination and had her standard issue Glock pulled on him before he realised what she was doing. “Don’t fuck with me, James. I don’t know who you are anymore. I’m sure you won’t mind talking to the end of my gun until you tell me what the fuck is going on. You pull anything funny and I’ll take you out. You know I will. You've seen me do it. Take the coat off and empty your pockets.”
Marc stared at her in shock. “Ali,” he said with a gasp, but he stood and did exactly as she asked. He undid his shirt and shook it, then turned out the pockets of his linen trousers. Next he pulled the pants legs up to show he had no ankle braces on either.
“Take the contacts out,” Ali bit out. “Now!” she added with a growl, her hands steady around the handle of the pistol, despite her wavering emotions.
Marc swallowed and carefully peeled the dark coloured contacts from his eyes. He blinked a few times and then met her eyes as his own eventually filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” he said desperately. “I can explain.”
Ali just stared at him, her eyes fixed on his, now blue and damp with unshed tears. “The tattoo. I want to see the tattoo.” She edged closer to him, the gun skill aimed squarely at his head. “You don’t move.” She held his gaze as she reached his side. They looked like James’ eyes, the voice was James’ to a tee, but it wasn’t enough. She unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt with one hand and then tore the rest of them open. She roughly pulled the waist of his trousers down and there it was… the small crossed Australian and Scottish flags tattoo on his hip. She wet her lips and felt a couple of tears drip down her cheeks as her fingers crawled across his stomach to the side of his navel where there were tiny injection scars in neat, practiced lines. She dropped the gun and fell to her knees to hug him around his waist with a broken wail. “I hate you!” she sobbed against his hip.
A sob of his own caught in Marc’s throat and knelt down in front of her to draw her into his arms, embracing her like he never wanted to let go. “I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…” he whispered over and over again through his tears, but now that the floodgates had opened, there was no stopping it. Her broken sobs against his shoulder were like stabbing him repeatedly in the heart and letting the guilt and regret escape like a tidal wave.
What the fuck had he done?
Word Count | 965
Co-written with agentsullivan
[Follows THIS]
Ali held up a shaky hand up, her other clenched in a tight fist at her side. “Don’t fucking look at me! So help me god, if you do, a fucking concussion will be the least of your worries!” she hissed, her head turned away from Marc’s general direction. She took a few more ragged breaths and started pacing, about ready to have a nervous breakdown.
Marc was sitting hunched over on the edge of the sofa, an icepack pressed to his eye where she had belted him one. He was lucky to have the first aid. She had left him lying unconscious in her doorway for close to half an hour before her consience kicked in through the shock and she got him an icepack when he came to. Since then, there had been silence as he perched awkwardly waiting for her to say something… anything. He dropped his eyes down to his lap so he wasn’t looking at her. He was pretty sure if he kept watching her anyway he would cry. He felt like such a stranger and having Ali treat him like a criminal hurt more than he wanted to admit, even if it was all his own fault. “Who’s the guy?” he asked quietly.
“NO!” Ali spat, waving her hand angrily and rounded to give him the most horrific look she was sure she ever managed in her entire life. “You don’t get to just fucking throw questions like ‘Who’s the guy?’ at me! You’re fucking dead! You’re fucking dead, James! DEAD!” She threw her hands over her face to break down into painful sobs. This wasn’t happening. It was like she was trapped in some horrible nightmare and couldn’t wake up out of it.
“Ali-” Marc tried, now wishing he had never gone through with this. Ali had obviously tried to deal with his ‘death’ and had moved on with her life. His stupid error of judgement had been nothing but selfishness. No, it went beyond that. He hadn’t thought of it distinctly enough from Ali’s side and now he had fucking caused her all this pain.
“SHUT UP!” Ali screamed and slumped against the wall, sliding down it until she was able to hug herself into a small ball, face buried in the crook of her arm. But it was only a few moments before he lifted her head and fixed him with a cold, furious glare over the top of her arm. “Don’t you fucking move or talk or even breathe loudly until I am ready to listen to you. You walk out of here and I’ll hunt you down and make sure you really know what it feels like to be murdered, you poor excuse for a fucking pile of shit! And take the goddamn fucking contacts before I scratch your eyeballs out of their sockets! It’s not you! I need to fucking see your eyes!” She swiped her hands across her eyes and was on her feet again, stalking across the room to hall, her eyes never leaving him. She reached into the cupboard and blindly punched in the safe combination and had her standard issue Glock pulled on him before he realised what she was doing. “Don’t fuck with me, James. I don’t know who you are anymore. I’m sure you won’t mind talking to the end of my gun until you tell me what the fuck is going on. You pull anything funny and I’ll take you out. You know I will. You've seen me do it. Take the coat off and empty your pockets.”
Marc stared at her in shock. “Ali,” he said with a gasp, but he stood and did exactly as she asked. He undid his shirt and shook it, then turned out the pockets of his linen trousers. Next he pulled the pants legs up to show he had no ankle braces on either.
“Take the contacts out,” Ali bit out. “Now!” she added with a growl, her hands steady around the handle of the pistol, despite her wavering emotions.
Marc swallowed and carefully peeled the dark coloured contacts from his eyes. He blinked a few times and then met her eyes as his own eventually filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” he said desperately. “I can explain.”
Ali just stared at him, her eyes fixed on his, now blue and damp with unshed tears. “The tattoo. I want to see the tattoo.” She edged closer to him, the gun skill aimed squarely at his head. “You don’t move.” She held his gaze as she reached his side. They looked like James’ eyes, the voice was James’ to a tee, but it wasn’t enough. She unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt with one hand and then tore the rest of them open. She roughly pulled the waist of his trousers down and there it was… the small crossed Australian and Scottish flags tattoo on his hip. She wet her lips and felt a couple of tears drip down her cheeks as her fingers crawled across his stomach to the side of his navel where there were tiny injection scars in neat, practiced lines. She dropped the gun and fell to her knees to hug him around his waist with a broken wail. “I hate you!” she sobbed against his hip.
A sob of his own caught in Marc’s throat and knelt down in front of her to draw her into his arms, embracing her like he never wanted to let go. “I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…” he whispered over and over again through his tears, but now that the floodgates had opened, there was no stopping it. Her broken sobs against his shoulder were like stabbing him repeatedly in the heart and letting the guilt and regret escape like a tidal wave.
What the fuck had he done?
Word Count | 965