(no subject)
Title: Shatter
Fandom: kay_willow's poison AU
Character: Lukas
The last bus is always quiet.
Louis, who's heard all the Louie the bus driver jokes and comments, nods to the young blond who's climbing the narrow steps. The only stranger on this route, Louis'd made a point of chatting with him in the station beforehand. It's a long trip back to the city and most people just pay the extra night's board. The kid seems all right, got a 'friend' waiting and all his work done; Louis can relate to that. He still watches until the blond curls up in one of the empty seats towards the back and switches on the dim light. His nose is soon buried in a well-read old book and the driver puts his bus in gear and pulls out.
The roads are clear and the rainstorm that the television news shrilled over has died down to a soft hiss of rain against the window and the rhythmic squeal of windscreen wipers on wet glass. Lukas sleeps, making full use of his ability to catnap in even the most uncomfortable surroundings. He is happy to be going home, indeed, he would have been content not to leave at all but Ken, half-hearted but resolved, had insisted. His parents were making a Visit and, unspoken but understood, they would not be happy to see a idle artist cluttering up their son's life.
So he had gone to attend a modest exhibition, spending most of his time amongst the exhibits as his fellow artists drank wine and posed against each other. He had not truly enjoyed it - his patience for mortals long since eroded - and was half-dreaming of his own bed with his own warm lover curled up in it.
Then - painpanicfearDREAD!
He jerks awake and up, long dormant senses screaming at him.
Just as the horn of the careening truck blares and the glare of headlights flashes through the side windows opposite him. He is still half-asleep as he flings himself over the two sleeping children in the seat across from him. The impact is so tremendous that for a few seconds it doesn't properly register. The side of the coach caving in and seats buckling as shards of glass, almost iridescent in the electric glare zip past. The crash is too loud to hear, shuddering through the air and warping fabric of the bus.
The screech of metal on tarmac is cut off by another crash-shudder as the bus and truck, twisted together by the collision, The sound tears through him, deadly glass shrapnel snapping through the air just above him. He can feel a sting, the heat of blood welling up and the icy chill of cold air and hail. The children shriek and claw at him as the bus and truck skid along the highway.
He honestly doesn't know how long it takes for the two vehicles to grind to a halt, only that it seems to take forever. He senses - 'sees' - the embankment and pushes the screaming children down again, scrabbling for the leverage to shield them both. One pushes up from under his shoulder, just as the bus's opposite side slams into the slick mud embankment. The terrified wail is cut short by a fatal and familiar 'snap'.
He lifts his head, shaking and numb to see an almost abstract diorama of twisted metal, broken seats and shattered bodies. Lukas pants, short, sharp breaths as the distant wail of sirens breaks through the stunned silence. The surviving child is clinging to him with one hand and he glances down as his fingers start to loose sensation. It is a girl, with curly brown hair and vacant blue eyes and as he watches, she reaches out to paw at the limp form of the other - boy - child.
"Brother? Wake up, brother. Mum'll be worried. Wake up!"
If he hadn't tried to shield the boy: if he hadn't still been sleep-dazed and rattled: if he hadn't seen Lawrence Weller in the dead boy's slack features: if he hadn't been able to taste the blood...and the death in the air, Lukas would not have allowed himself this interference. The tendrils of power surging up with the ease of eons of practice, the slightest, gentlest pressure against broken bones and the boy blinks and stares up at him.
They crawl through the wreckage, Lukas weighted down by the two clinging, sobbing children. He doesn't know if he passes the wounded or the trapped without helping, his mind has switched to the clinical analysis of a battlefield commander. There are police, paramedics and fire-fighters crowded around the wreck by the time all three have made their way out.
A paramedic whisks away the children, soothing them as they reach for Lukas. A blanket is tucked around his shoulders by a kind-eyed woman in a police uniform and a cup of something hot is pushed into his hands as he's herded out of the way. He stands alone, adrift in a sea of organised mayhem that is the rescue effort.
Not needed. The thought cuts through his numbness like a surgeon's scalpel and he shakes. Not needed. Not wanted either and he suddenly does not want to be here. The cries of wounded, the screams of those who are dying and the reek of blood and steel, all tearing open ancient scars and he can't do it. He is simply not strong enough to bear the weight alone...
Ken watches the television, gripping the remote so tightly that it threatens to crack. Rufus is sitting at his feet and the three cats have positioned themselves around him. The news has been playing for more than an hour now, the pictures stark even with the ludicrous frame of ticker-tape and logo. The snarl of metal is barely recognisable as a bus, jagged and broken under the high-powered lights.
He looks back at the phone lying on the arm of the couch and tries again, to convince himself that Lukas is not one of the shreds of flesh and bone being carried away from the wreckage. His last phone call had said only that he meant to try to catch the last bus. He might not have made it on time, Lukas still having trouble adjusting to timetables and absolute deadlines. His phone could simply be dead - he never remembered to charge it after all...
The train of thought is broken by Rufus hauling himself up with a sleepy 'wuff'. He looks up, not daring to let himself hope, as the dog tilts his head, then starts to wag his tail, bounding to the door with his entire rump wagging. Ken dives off the couch the second the soft rap of knuckles on wood registers.
Flinging the door open, he finds Lukas, soaked to the skin with rain and blood but alive and here. He all but drags the blond into the flat, shooing Rufus away as the dog barks and leaps all over his newly returned master. Lukas's injuries are superficial but there is a hollowness in his eyes that makes Ken think of a cup of red wine and strangled, rasping breaths. A gesture and the bloodied, soaking t-shirt peels away to reveal no broken bones or deep bruising and he's moving, arms tight against chilled skin.
A strangled sound escapes and Lukas falls into the embrace. Ken remembers a tent, flickering firelight and revulsion at the mere thought of touching sullied flesh leading to long hours of uncomfortable silence with them sharing the tent but not speaking. He had believed Lukas tainted by the blood he shed and spilt. He knows better now, arms tightening around his heart-sore lover. "I'm here. I'm here. It'll be all right. I'm here."
Fandom: kay_willow's poison AU
Character: Lukas
The last bus is always quiet.
Louis, who's heard all the Louie the bus driver jokes and comments, nods to the young blond who's climbing the narrow steps. The only stranger on this route, Louis'd made a point of chatting with him in the station beforehand. It's a long trip back to the city and most people just pay the extra night's board. The kid seems all right, got a 'friend' waiting and all his work done; Louis can relate to that. He still watches until the blond curls up in one of the empty seats towards the back and switches on the dim light. His nose is soon buried in a well-read old book and the driver puts his bus in gear and pulls out.
The roads are clear and the rainstorm that the television news shrilled over has died down to a soft hiss of rain against the window and the rhythmic squeal of windscreen wipers on wet glass. Lukas sleeps, making full use of his ability to catnap in even the most uncomfortable surroundings. He is happy to be going home, indeed, he would have been content not to leave at all but Ken, half-hearted but resolved, had insisted. His parents were making a Visit and, unspoken but understood, they would not be happy to see a idle artist cluttering up their son's life.
So he had gone to attend a modest exhibition, spending most of his time amongst the exhibits as his fellow artists drank wine and posed against each other. He had not truly enjoyed it - his patience for mortals long since eroded - and was half-dreaming of his own bed with his own warm lover curled up in it.
Then - painpanicfearDREAD!
He jerks awake and up, long dormant senses screaming at him.
Just as the horn of the careening truck blares and the glare of headlights flashes through the side windows opposite him. He is still half-asleep as he flings himself over the two sleeping children in the seat across from him. The impact is so tremendous that for a few seconds it doesn't properly register. The side of the coach caving in and seats buckling as shards of glass, almost iridescent in the electric glare zip past. The crash is too loud to hear, shuddering through the air and warping fabric of the bus.
The screech of metal on tarmac is cut off by another crash-shudder as the bus and truck, twisted together by the collision, The sound tears through him, deadly glass shrapnel snapping through the air just above him. He can feel a sting, the heat of blood welling up and the icy chill of cold air and hail. The children shriek and claw at him as the bus and truck skid along the highway.
He honestly doesn't know how long it takes for the two vehicles to grind to a halt, only that it seems to take forever. He senses - 'sees' - the embankment and pushes the screaming children down again, scrabbling for the leverage to shield them both. One pushes up from under his shoulder, just as the bus's opposite side slams into the slick mud embankment. The terrified wail is cut short by a fatal and familiar 'snap'.
He lifts his head, shaking and numb to see an almost abstract diorama of twisted metal, broken seats and shattered bodies. Lukas pants, short, sharp breaths as the distant wail of sirens breaks through the stunned silence. The surviving child is clinging to him with one hand and he glances down as his fingers start to loose sensation. It is a girl, with curly brown hair and vacant blue eyes and as he watches, she reaches out to paw at the limp form of the other - boy - child.
"Brother? Wake up, brother. Mum'll be worried. Wake up!"
If he hadn't tried to shield the boy: if he hadn't still been sleep-dazed and rattled: if he hadn't seen Lawrence Weller in the dead boy's slack features: if he hadn't been able to taste the blood...and the death in the air, Lukas would not have allowed himself this interference. The tendrils of power surging up with the ease of eons of practice, the slightest, gentlest pressure against broken bones and the boy blinks and stares up at him.
They crawl through the wreckage, Lukas weighted down by the two clinging, sobbing children. He doesn't know if he passes the wounded or the trapped without helping, his mind has switched to the clinical analysis of a battlefield commander. There are police, paramedics and fire-fighters crowded around the wreck by the time all three have made their way out.
A paramedic whisks away the children, soothing them as they reach for Lukas. A blanket is tucked around his shoulders by a kind-eyed woman in a police uniform and a cup of something hot is pushed into his hands as he's herded out of the way. He stands alone, adrift in a sea of organised mayhem that is the rescue effort.
Not needed. The thought cuts through his numbness like a surgeon's scalpel and he shakes. Not needed. Not wanted either and he suddenly does not want to be here. The cries of wounded, the screams of those who are dying and the reek of blood and steel, all tearing open ancient scars and he can't do it. He is simply not strong enough to bear the weight alone...
Ken watches the television, gripping the remote so tightly that it threatens to crack. Rufus is sitting at his feet and the three cats have positioned themselves around him. The news has been playing for more than an hour now, the pictures stark even with the ludicrous frame of ticker-tape and logo. The snarl of metal is barely recognisable as a bus, jagged and broken under the high-powered lights.
He looks back at the phone lying on the arm of the couch and tries again, to convince himself that Lukas is not one of the shreds of flesh and bone being carried away from the wreckage. His last phone call had said only that he meant to try to catch the last bus. He might not have made it on time, Lukas still having trouble adjusting to timetables and absolute deadlines. His phone could simply be dead - he never remembered to charge it after all...
The train of thought is broken by Rufus hauling himself up with a sleepy 'wuff'. He looks up, not daring to let himself hope, as the dog tilts his head, then starts to wag his tail, bounding to the door with his entire rump wagging. Ken dives off the couch the second the soft rap of knuckles on wood registers.
Flinging the door open, he finds Lukas, soaked to the skin with rain and blood but alive and here. He all but drags the blond into the flat, shooing Rufus away as the dog barks and leaps all over his newly returned master. Lukas's injuries are superficial but there is a hollowness in his eyes that makes Ken think of a cup of red wine and strangled, rasping breaths. A gesture and the bloodied, soaking t-shirt peels away to reveal no broken bones or deep bruising and he's moving, arms tight against chilled skin.
A strangled sound escapes and Lukas falls into the embrace. Ken remembers a tent, flickering firelight and revulsion at the mere thought of touching sullied flesh leading to long hours of uncomfortable silence with them sharing the tent but not speaking. He had believed Lukas tainted by the blood he shed and spilt. He knows better now, arms tightening around his heart-sore lover. "I'm here. I'm here. It'll be all right. I'm here."