EverymanHYBRID (ARG): replica (1/4)
Title: replica: in an instant, new aspirations are also ahead of me
Author: jack_infinitude
Pairing: Habit/Vincent, Jeff/Steph
Rating: pg-13
Summary: The game begins again. He's not sure he can handle it this time.
Disclaimer: Not affiliated with the series or any of the boys.
Warnings: Allusions to sexual abuse. Read with caution.
Notes: Part one of four. It also seems that I can't write anything without inserting Evance in there.
In an instant, new aspirations are also ahead of me
A scenario of wins and losses unfolds
In the silence, the reflections of ages leave a path
Breathing, I notice the circular motion, and then...
“I Do” -- Ilaria Graziano
He wakes up feeling like someone’s trying to hammer a nail through his brainstem.
Vincent flexes his hands, stretches his spine against the back of the chair, and can hear something rattling, cold and heavy and metallic against his wrists as his spine cracks and pops. He stares disinterestedly at the blurry floor -- someone has taken his glasses. But he is too tired to care, and it actually comes as something like relief. His eyes don’t have to focus as a migraine inches its way up his spine to plant a flag on the crown of his head.
There’s heat coming down on his head, from high above. It smells like sunshine. He wonders what happened to Habit and Stephanie and Jeff. If they got away or if they are prisoners too.
Then he hears a familiar step and a door opening and closing and he keeps his gaze focused on the floor to hide the smile tugging at his mouth. He knows those steps, has heard them in his dreams, on the occasion that he has them. What with the nightmares being such an old hat, after all.
Hello Doctor Corenthal, he thinks as another chair scrapes across the floor to settle in front of him. It sounds like they’re sitting on concrete. Useful to know.
He keeps himself still and small, the way he discovered when he was young. People reveal more when in the position of power, he has learned. The Captain would have his head too, if he didn’t try to gather information. If the Captain was here. If they hadn’t argued and fought and separated and --
The minutes pass as the Doctor sits and arranges himself. The handcuffs are heavy on his wrists, and Vincent feels a surge of amusement at the precaution, having a sudden mental image of Habit bound and gagged with heavy chains, the kind found on pirate ships, his dark eyes bright with rage.
And then he doesn’t feel anything but nostalgia. There’s a lot he would give to be five years old and playing pirates with the Captain again.
“You’ll always be Habit. I won’t let them change you!”
Corenthal lets out a heavy sigh. Vincent doesn’t rise to the bait. He knows better by now.
“You pretended to be kind but behind those smiles you kept everything ambiguous!"
“I know you’re awake, Vinnie.”
Don’t call me that, he wants to whisper. He does not.
“I can’t help you if you don’t help me, Vinnie.”
Still playing that old game? What a farce.
“Vinnie, I want to help you.”
You’ve already tried that, old fool. Pull the other one, its got bells on it.
Corenthal sighs again. He must be working through his lunch hour, poor man. Poor, stupid, clumsy man and Vincent feels hatred rising in his throat like bile.
If he tries to tell me that he never meant for any of this to happen, I will kill him. I will kill him from this chair, I’ll find a way. For Steph and Jeffrey and Linnie and for us, love.
He scratches his fingers against chair-arms, feels the splinters catching on his skin and nails. It’s an old piece of furniture; he could break it like kindling. Perhaps that is what Corenthal wants. He won’t put anything past this wretched monster of a man.
Then a shiver runs down his arms, making his hands spasm outwards, jerking at the handcuffs. Corenthal tut-tuts and places a steadying hand on Vincent’s left wrist. It’s enough to make him go still, the rage tearing through him so suddenly that he’s paralyzed with it.
“I am sorry about the restraints Vincent, but you were fighting us quite a bit. We had to tranquilize you, you know that? You didn’t used to be this difficult...”
Vincent can’t bring himself to pay attention. He’s staring fixedly at Corenthal’s hand, which remains on his wrist, trying to fight the spinning feeling in his head. The migraine is making its presence known, stabbing painfully into his eyes, playing havoc with his sense of balance. Except he knows it isn’t just that, because the hand on him isn’t Stephanie or Jeffrey or Habit, it’s the hand of a man, who has the power of life or death over him, the power to --
He squeezes his eyes shut. Doctor Corenthal is many things but he is not Reverend Green, or so Vincent hopes because all he can think about is his legs, how he’ll be playing right into his game whether he keeps them opened or closed, and he just. Can’t.
“The Man doesn’t share, Doctor,” he says harshly.
The shocked silence is utterly terrific. It also achieves the desired result. Corenthal lets out a hiss and releases his wrist to grab Vincent’s chin, forcing him to look up. Vincent glares at the blur of his face, his rage finally winning out over his common sense. He wants Corenthal to know how much he hates him, to know how much pain he’s caused in his reckless stupidity.
“How’s Linnie?” he asks, because he can’t resist needling him. He can hear Corenthal’s teeth grinding from here and it fills him with wretched glee.
“God save us from doctors,” Habit said, tossing the flashlight from one hand to another, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. It felt like coming home.
Corenthal lets go of his face. The visit is over. The door clangs shut and the gray walls and floor begin running together as a wave of pain overwhelms him, but Vincent keeps his back straight until the footsteps fade.
Only when he’s certain that the doctor is gone does he let himself slump over and shake from pain and fear, because he is Vincent Lanzilotti-Kinsella, and mountains will rise and fall before he bows to any man.
Overhead, the sun shines down on a small compound in Ohio. The calendar is marked June 1980. Let the game begin again.
Author: jack_infinitude
Pairing: Habit/Vincent, Jeff/Steph
Rating: pg-13
Summary: The game begins again. He's not sure he can handle it this time.
Disclaimer: Not affiliated with the series or any of the boys.
Warnings: Allusions to sexual abuse. Read with caution.
Notes: Part one of four. It also seems that I can't write anything without inserting Evance in there.
In an instant, new aspirations are also ahead of me
A scenario of wins and losses unfolds
In the silence, the reflections of ages leave a path
Breathing, I notice the circular motion, and then...
“I Do” -- Ilaria Graziano
He wakes up feeling like someone’s trying to hammer a nail through his brainstem.
Vincent flexes his hands, stretches his spine against the back of the chair, and can hear something rattling, cold and heavy and metallic against his wrists as his spine cracks and pops. He stares disinterestedly at the blurry floor -- someone has taken his glasses. But he is too tired to care, and it actually comes as something like relief. His eyes don’t have to focus as a migraine inches its way up his spine to plant a flag on the crown of his head.
There’s heat coming down on his head, from high above. It smells like sunshine. He wonders what happened to Habit and Stephanie and Jeff. If they got away or if they are prisoners too.
Then he hears a familiar step and a door opening and closing and he keeps his gaze focused on the floor to hide the smile tugging at his mouth. He knows those steps, has heard them in his dreams, on the occasion that he has them. What with the nightmares being such an old hat, after all.
Hello Doctor Corenthal, he thinks as another chair scrapes across the floor to settle in front of him. It sounds like they’re sitting on concrete. Useful to know.
He keeps himself still and small, the way he discovered when he was young. People reveal more when in the position of power, he has learned. The Captain would have his head too, if he didn’t try to gather information. If the Captain was here. If they hadn’t argued and fought and separated and --
The minutes pass as the Doctor sits and arranges himself. The handcuffs are heavy on his wrists, and Vincent feels a surge of amusement at the precaution, having a sudden mental image of Habit bound and gagged with heavy chains, the kind found on pirate ships, his dark eyes bright with rage.
And then he doesn’t feel anything but nostalgia. There’s a lot he would give to be five years old and playing pirates with the Captain again.
“You’ll always be Habit. I won’t let them change you!”
Corenthal lets out a heavy sigh. Vincent doesn’t rise to the bait. He knows better by now.
“You pretended to be kind but behind those smiles you kept everything ambiguous!"
“I know you’re awake, Vinnie.”
Don’t call me that, he wants to whisper. He does not.
“I can’t help you if you don’t help me, Vinnie.”
Still playing that old game? What a farce.
“Vinnie, I want to help you.”
You’ve already tried that, old fool. Pull the other one, its got bells on it.
Corenthal sighs again. He must be working through his lunch hour, poor man. Poor, stupid, clumsy man and Vincent feels hatred rising in his throat like bile.
If he tries to tell me that he never meant for any of this to happen, I will kill him. I will kill him from this chair, I’ll find a way. For Steph and Jeffrey and Linnie and for us, love.
He scratches his fingers against chair-arms, feels the splinters catching on his skin and nails. It’s an old piece of furniture; he could break it like kindling. Perhaps that is what Corenthal wants. He won’t put anything past this wretched monster of a man.
Then a shiver runs down his arms, making his hands spasm outwards, jerking at the handcuffs. Corenthal tut-tuts and places a steadying hand on Vincent’s left wrist. It’s enough to make him go still, the rage tearing through him so suddenly that he’s paralyzed with it.
“I am sorry about the restraints Vincent, but you were fighting us quite a bit. We had to tranquilize you, you know that? You didn’t used to be this difficult...”
Vincent can’t bring himself to pay attention. He’s staring fixedly at Corenthal’s hand, which remains on his wrist, trying to fight the spinning feeling in his head. The migraine is making its presence known, stabbing painfully into his eyes, playing havoc with his sense of balance. Except he knows it isn’t just that, because the hand on him isn’t Stephanie or Jeffrey or Habit, it’s the hand of a man, who has the power of life or death over him, the power to --
He squeezes his eyes shut. Doctor Corenthal is many things but he is not Reverend Green, or so Vincent hopes because all he can think about is his legs, how he’ll be playing right into his game whether he keeps them opened or closed, and he just. Can’t.
“The Man doesn’t share, Doctor,” he says harshly.
The shocked silence is utterly terrific. It also achieves the desired result. Corenthal lets out a hiss and releases his wrist to grab Vincent’s chin, forcing him to look up. Vincent glares at the blur of his face, his rage finally winning out over his common sense. He wants Corenthal to know how much he hates him, to know how much pain he’s caused in his reckless stupidity.
“How’s Linnie?” he asks, because he can’t resist needling him. He can hear Corenthal’s teeth grinding from here and it fills him with wretched glee.
“God save us from doctors,” Habit said, tossing the flashlight from one hand to another, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. It felt like coming home.
Corenthal lets go of his face. The visit is over. The door clangs shut and the gray walls and floor begin running together as a wave of pain overwhelms him, but Vincent keeps his back straight until the footsteps fade.
Only when he’s certain that the doctor is gone does he let himself slump over and shake from pain and fear, because he is Vincent Lanzilotti-Kinsella, and mountains will rise and fall before he bows to any man.
Overhead, the sun shines down on a small compound in Ohio. The calendar is marked June 1980. Let the game begin again.