"Powder Burns" (Warriors)
TITLE: Powder Burns
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
RATING: PG-13
RECIPIENT: inlovewithnight
FANDOM: Warriors
PROMPT: "Flashback"
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta!
Cold.
He remembers being cold.
It’s all he really allows himself to remember anymore. Anything else is too much, too powerful. Too dangerous.
Too much. He has to laugh at that, though the sound sticks and clogs his throat. There was too much of everything. Too much hate, too much death, too much bullshit.
Too much, except for what they did, which was too little. Which was nothing.
He shivers and rubs his hand over his face, scrubbing off the memory. He laughs again. Memory sounds so pleasant, so nice. Memory is picnics and cricket matches. Memory is Mum and Dad and Christmas. Whatever this is, it isn’t memory.
He shakes his head and moves over to the window. The landscape is green, a bloody Merchant-Ivory production with muted tones until you stumble upon a sudden scarlet garden that speaks of buried passion.
He doesn’t walk by the gardens. The vibrant red is like an explosion of blood, wounds blossoming in the person next to you. Your mate, your contact, a child.
He chokes and turns away from the sunlight. There were no children there, no matter what was said or done to protect them. They were victims or they were dead or they soon would be - before their first dance, first kiss, first love.
He shakes his head again, harder, clearing everything away. He goes to the comer, safe from snipers and out of the line of sight and tries to breathe. Slow and steady, count it off until his chest is no longer heaving.
He’s careful not to close his eyes. He’s careful because she’s there behind them, hiding there as if he can keep her safe. They were fooling themselves that he had that power, any power. She knows better, maybe always did or maybe she didn’t and Neil was right. Maybe she was using him in hopes that he would, he could.
It’s fitting that whatever promises he made to her -
Did I make promises?
He doesn’t remember anymore what he said, what he did.
Did nothing. Nothing I could do.
Even for her?
It was different with her, she was different.
- came to fruition. They were lies. He could do nothing, offer her nothing at all.
He keeps breathing, moving along the wall, keeping out of the carefully constructed shafts of sunlight, unsure what’s real, trusting nothing. Not even himself. Especially not himself. Even sunshine is a lie, deceptive.
Enemies look like friends, empty houses are full of bombs or bodies or both, and that seemingly innocent sunlight hides the flash of powder in its glow, makes you unsure if it’s the glare from the remnants of glass or the blade of a knife or the barrel of a gun. Nothing is trustworthy, nothing is real.
She was real. He remembers the feel of her, the soft touch of her skin against his. It was innocent - always innocent, no matter what Neil said - but he remembers more than that. He remembers touching her cheek and then her neck, sliding his fingers over her pulse as she tilted her head, gave way to his light caress. She was as hungry as he was, mouth open for his kisses, body desperate for his touch.
He remembers the rough feel of the wood against his hands as he pinned her back against the house, as he tasted her willing mouth. He remembers fingers under her shirt, against her bra. He remembers worn clothing and blood-stained uniforms piled on the floor, his hand over her mouth to keep her silent, keep them both quiet so no one could find them, hear them.
More lies.
His mind plays tricks on him, makes promises that it can’t keep. Just following orders, he thinks with a silent laugh as he nears the window again. He’s made his circuit and secured the perimeter. He looks for shadows and secrets, knowing they’re hidden everywhere here. Secrets are lies that haven’t been told yet. Minka was a secret, it was all a secret, all a lie.
They had a job to do, and their job was to do nothing. It wasn’t a job, it was a mockery, a rope to a drowning man that falls too short to reach him. An unloaded gun, spent shell casings. That’s all the good they were, no good at all.
The door opens, the sound of the lock turning like a gunshot and he’s crouched on the ground, hands searching for his weapon. Can’t fire it, so he’s not sure why. He supposes it’s the reassuring weight, the cold metal against his blood warmed palms.
“Lieutenant Feeley.” Her voice is soft and sweet, the slightest hint of an accent to tease him. It’s a trap, he knows, but it’s so easy to fall into that voice. To feel again. To care. “John.”
She closes in on him and he thrusts the gun in her direction, but she keeps moving, knowing as well as he that there’s nothing he can do. Not a shot to fire. Impotent. No wonder Almira didn’t…couldn’t…wouldn’t…
“John.”
He looks up at her, letting his hands fall to his sides. There’s no clatter of metal, no gun to fall away. Not that he’s ever made a difference with a gun. His hands are empty as she takes them. Empty and useless. Her hands are warm, soft and warm. He doesn’t remember warm.
“Come on, Lieutenant Feeley. Let’s get you to bed.” She steers him to the bed near the wall. He runs his hand along the grey blanket and sits on it, letting her guide him down. Her uniform is white. He doesn’t remember white either. Only red. Only blood.
“We did nothing,” he whispers to her, reaching out to catch her hand, to feel the pressure of her fingers on his skin. “And they died.”
“You did as you were told, Lieutenant,” she says the words in a voice as soft as her skin, caressing him with them as her hands guide the cup to his lips, pills and then water and then the stiff comfort of his cot. “You followed orders.”
“They were wrong,” he informs her as she pulls away, as his eyes close. “They were wrong.”
“They often are, Lieutenant.” She nods and presses something else to his hand, something cold and metal and something he knows. The first thing he’s known for sure in a long time. He looks at her and sits up, feeling the sleekness of the shaft, the ridges of the barrel. It’s loud in the silence as he pulls the safety off, as he cocks the gun, gazing down the barrel with nothing in his sight. She watches for a moment and nods again. “They often are.”
He waits until he hears the door close, the key turn in the lock before he presses the muzzle to his head, to pull the trigger. He’ll follow through this time. He’ll do something.
But it still won’t be enough.
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
RATING: PG-13
RECIPIENT: inlovewithnight
FANDOM: Warriors
PROMPT: "Flashback"
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta!
Cold.
He remembers being cold.
It’s all he really allows himself to remember anymore. Anything else is too much, too powerful. Too dangerous.
Too much. He has to laugh at that, though the sound sticks and clogs his throat. There was too much of everything. Too much hate, too much death, too much bullshit.
Too much, except for what they did, which was too little. Which was nothing.
He shivers and rubs his hand over his face, scrubbing off the memory. He laughs again. Memory sounds so pleasant, so nice. Memory is picnics and cricket matches. Memory is Mum and Dad and Christmas. Whatever this is, it isn’t memory.
He shakes his head and moves over to the window. The landscape is green, a bloody Merchant-Ivory production with muted tones until you stumble upon a sudden scarlet garden that speaks of buried passion.
He doesn’t walk by the gardens. The vibrant red is like an explosion of blood, wounds blossoming in the person next to you. Your mate, your contact, a child.
He chokes and turns away from the sunlight. There were no children there, no matter what was said or done to protect them. They were victims or they were dead or they soon would be - before their first dance, first kiss, first love.
He shakes his head again, harder, clearing everything away. He goes to the comer, safe from snipers and out of the line of sight and tries to breathe. Slow and steady, count it off until his chest is no longer heaving.
He’s careful not to close his eyes. He’s careful because she’s there behind them, hiding there as if he can keep her safe. They were fooling themselves that he had that power, any power. She knows better, maybe always did or maybe she didn’t and Neil was right. Maybe she was using him in hopes that he would, he could.
It’s fitting that whatever promises he made to her -
Did I make promises?
He doesn’t remember anymore what he said, what he did.
Did nothing. Nothing I could do.
Even for her?
It was different with her, she was different.
- came to fruition. They were lies. He could do nothing, offer her nothing at all.
He keeps breathing, moving along the wall, keeping out of the carefully constructed shafts of sunlight, unsure what’s real, trusting nothing. Not even himself. Especially not himself. Even sunshine is a lie, deceptive.
Enemies look like friends, empty houses are full of bombs or bodies or both, and that seemingly innocent sunlight hides the flash of powder in its glow, makes you unsure if it’s the glare from the remnants of glass or the blade of a knife or the barrel of a gun. Nothing is trustworthy, nothing is real.
She was real. He remembers the feel of her, the soft touch of her skin against his. It was innocent - always innocent, no matter what Neil said - but he remembers more than that. He remembers touching her cheek and then her neck, sliding his fingers over her pulse as she tilted her head, gave way to his light caress. She was as hungry as he was, mouth open for his kisses, body desperate for his touch.
He remembers the rough feel of the wood against his hands as he pinned her back against the house, as he tasted her willing mouth. He remembers fingers under her shirt, against her bra. He remembers worn clothing and blood-stained uniforms piled on the floor, his hand over her mouth to keep her silent, keep them both quiet so no one could find them, hear them.
More lies.
His mind plays tricks on him, makes promises that it can’t keep. Just following orders, he thinks with a silent laugh as he nears the window again. He’s made his circuit and secured the perimeter. He looks for shadows and secrets, knowing they’re hidden everywhere here. Secrets are lies that haven’t been told yet. Minka was a secret, it was all a secret, all a lie.
They had a job to do, and their job was to do nothing. It wasn’t a job, it was a mockery, a rope to a drowning man that falls too short to reach him. An unloaded gun, spent shell casings. That’s all the good they were, no good at all.
The door opens, the sound of the lock turning like a gunshot and he’s crouched on the ground, hands searching for his weapon. Can’t fire it, so he’s not sure why. He supposes it’s the reassuring weight, the cold metal against his blood warmed palms.
“Lieutenant Feeley.” Her voice is soft and sweet, the slightest hint of an accent to tease him. It’s a trap, he knows, but it’s so easy to fall into that voice. To feel again. To care. “John.”
She closes in on him and he thrusts the gun in her direction, but she keeps moving, knowing as well as he that there’s nothing he can do. Not a shot to fire. Impotent. No wonder Almira didn’t…couldn’t…wouldn’t…
“John.”
He looks up at her, letting his hands fall to his sides. There’s no clatter of metal, no gun to fall away. Not that he’s ever made a difference with a gun. His hands are empty as she takes them. Empty and useless. Her hands are warm, soft and warm. He doesn’t remember warm.
“Come on, Lieutenant Feeley. Let’s get you to bed.” She steers him to the bed near the wall. He runs his hand along the grey blanket and sits on it, letting her guide him down. Her uniform is white. He doesn’t remember white either. Only red. Only blood.
“We did nothing,” he whispers to her, reaching out to catch her hand, to feel the pressure of her fingers on his skin. “And they died.”
“You did as you were told, Lieutenant,” she says the words in a voice as soft as her skin, caressing him with them as her hands guide the cup to his lips, pills and then water and then the stiff comfort of his cot. “You followed orders.”
“They were wrong,” he informs her as she pulls away, as his eyes close. “They were wrong.”
“They often are, Lieutenant.” She nods and presses something else to his hand, something cold and metal and something he knows. The first thing he’s known for sure in a long time. He looks at her and sits up, feeling the sleekness of the shaft, the ridges of the barrel. It’s loud in the silence as he pulls the safety off, as he cocks the gun, gazing down the barrel with nothing in his sight. She watches for a moment and nods again. “They often are.”
He waits until he hears the door close, the key turn in the lock before he presses the muzzle to his head, to pull the trigger. He’ll follow through this time. He’ll do something.
But it still won’t be enough.