A/N: Hello! So...after being being blown away by the finale of series two, I started writing this. It's pretty trippy now I read it back, but, you know, fits in with those last moments, right? Takes place not too long after that. Angsty, mad, tragic...the usual stuff. And I don't normally mention the songs that inspire me, but I have to say that this fic owes a lot (including its title) to 'All The Love' by Kate Bush. Give it a listen, quality stuff.
Anyway, hope you enjoy it. Your comments mean the world.
Ruby :o)
It was very quiet. Too quiet, he thought absently, as he strained his ears to hear any form of noise. No cars, no cries in the night, too early for birdsong. Just the sound of her steady breathing, mingled with his, the sound of two souls that sleep couldn't quite reach.
His hand was resting over her bare stomach, his thumb trailing along her creamy skin. Perfect and flawless...but for that one mark. The mark his fingers wouldn't touch; ugly and dark, staring at him accusingly. Oh, he wanted to kiss it better for her, broken mutterings and loving whispers escaping every time his mouth met her skin. But he couldn't bring himself to. Instead he just laid there, her naked body before him, his eyes fixed on the scar he'd given her.
One of her hands was in his hair, twirling it distractedly, and he knew she was awake, despite her darkly tired eyes. It had been so long since either of them had uttered a single word, and he was suddenly scared that he'd forgotten what her voice sounded like, which was completely absurd. He was hovering in limbo now, a place between realities, his thoughts and memories a dull cacophony in his head, along with the remnants of the nightmares and ghosts of the weeks past. He couldn't name his feelings. Strange, how long he'd waited for this; strange how so much had changed between them. Yet it felt as though it had never mattered what paths they'd each chosen. They would have always led them here, in the end. Inevitable. Here he was, stood on that edge once more, ready to plummet now but still a little terrified to, still a little broken. Both of them were. Maybe that's why they'd finally found themselves here, together again but not. They'd each lost too much to go back now.
She was right. It felt like they were running out of time, running out of reasons to keep fighting. He had her now, but he still couldn't reach her, still couldn't hold her to him and keep her there. A great glass wall between them, a wall that he could see through, that tormented him, that taunted him, that wouldn't crack no matter how many times he rammed himself into it. So he'd given up trying.
His eyes were stinging, still fixed on that one point on her side and she knew it. His thumb brushed the skin around it, yet never quite reaching it, forbidden, never to be touched. And the more he stared at it, the more he felt so horribly out of place, the more he wondered how, why they were here, entwined together, tangled in red bed-sheets that reminded him of her blood.
His hands were still covered in it.
"Detective Inspector Alexandra Drake-"
"Reported gunshot wound- "
"Blood loss considerable- "
"Guv?"
"-Can feel a pulse- "
"What have you done!?"
"Witnesses said he fled the scene..."
"No one can find him- "
He found himself staggering through foreign land, the hospital, endless corridors of blinking lights and strangled cries, until he reached the door he'd been searching for. Men's room. He yanked open the nearest cubicle, almost ripping the door straight off its hinges, fell to his knees and he ignored the sharp pain that the hard white floor sent shuddering through his body as he vomited. He groaned, coughing violently, gripping the rim of the toilet seat, his knuckles white. For a moment he was blind. Swaying from side to side, falling limp against the cubicle wall, spitting the vile taste from his mouth as his head threatened to crack open. He felt like he'd been running for days, not just an hour, running away from it all only because they were chasing him. He could already feel their teeth nipping at his heels, and he had to run, he had to leave or else they'd drag him down somewhere he never wanted to go again. Yes, that was why he was running, he told himself. Not because he couldn't bear to see it, not because he could still feel the weight of the gun in his hand, not because the shot was still echoing through his skull. He wasn't running away from her.
He was shaking, he noticed. Strange. He couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything.
Forcing himself onto his feet, still moving as though within a dream, he wandered over to a sink, started splashing water onto his face, into his mouth. The taste was still there though. The heavy sickness in his gut was still there and he ended up retching again, bracing himself against the sink, forcing it down. He sucked in long, deep breaths, his head bowed low, and with agonising effort, he brought it back up so he could look at himself-
But he didn't see his own face. He saw hers. Her wide, empty eyes. Her pale face. Her blood. Lost, so lost now, so far away and he couldn't quite feel it as the rage built inside him, a crimson rage that at least felt like life, like living. Better than anything else, better than despair or guilt. Or love.
He couldn't breathe then, for only a moment but it felt like a lifetime, and a strange noise managed to escape him, a muffled sort of cry, a broken sound that sent him spinning, and the next thing he knew his fist was hurtling toward the mirror before him. It splintered, a crack that seemed to be splitting time itself, and he was unaware of his near broken hand, of the blood that poured from it. He stared at the fragmented image of himself that had been left, black jagged lines cutting right through him. And as her haunting gaze managed to stare back somehow, he decided then and there that this was the weak moment, this was his breakdown, and that as soon as he walked out of the door, it would be gone. It would never resurface.
Storming out of the men's room, ignoring the gazes that all seemed to fall on him, he strode fast and purposeful towards his destination, knowing this was his one shot, knowing he didn't have long. And the weakness, it vanished. Replaced by something else entirely, something that was comforting and familiar, something that had always ruled him above anything else. Fury.
He could face her now.
He could feel his breathing getting heavier, and he shifted his place on the bed, trying to get comfortable, and he pressed himself closer to her. His head was resting by her waist, and he thought he must look afraid, vulnerable in his position; like a child clinging on to a parent, fearful and alone. He felt none of those emotions though, just a bizarre coldness that made him want to run again. But he was so sick of running.
Sleep was still eluding him, slipping from his grasp and though his tired eyes protested, he found he couldn't let them close. He wondered what expression she was wearing on her face, wondered if the emptiness in her eyes had gone away yet. It had scared him at first but he supposed he'd just grown used to it, wondered if it had always been there, even before, but he just hadn't noticed it. No, he was too busy wanting her, too busy hating her, too busy wishing the both of them dead.
He let out a shuddering breath at that thought, and she stirred as it brushed over her ruined skin. Ruined, yes, that was the word; he'd ruined her. Perhaps from the moment he clapped eyes on her. And feeling something then that he hadn't felt in days, powerful and suffocating, worming through his veins like poison, he leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss just above her hip. As though it might give him some kind of redemption, some forgiveness.
As though he deserved any.
Bolly...
Bolly...
BOLLY!
His throat was on fire when he was dragged away from her and in the end, calling violently for her one last time, he'd shrugged himself away from a stranger's grip and ran, falling through the patterned curtains and scrambling away from her bed. He knew then that if he stopped running, if he stopped pushing forward, if he stopped trying to fix it, he'd just stop completely and so would she. She'd never wake up if he stopped fighting.
As he drove through the night, thinking distractedly that he'd probably have to dump the car at some point yet unable to feel any regret, he was quite sure he'd never felt so alone in his life. He had no help this time, no Sam Tyler to sort it all out for him. But that time had been different, hadn't it, because he was innocent, knew it, could feel it in his bones.
But now...he'd stood there, blind, helpless as that bullet went speeding away...
He didn't know where he was going and as he sucked in a shaking breath, he could still smell her on him, even though he hadn't dared to touch her since it had happened. The only thing left of her was the long gone sting of her palm cutting across his face. He slammed his hand into the wheel, exhaling, suddenly desperate for a cigarette.
He wound up at her flat. He didn't even ask for a key, just kicked the door in, not sure what he was looking for but knowing that it started here; this was the first step, the first point on the map of her life. It was all spread out before him but he didn't know how to read it. Didn't make any sense.
He grabbed random things, shoved them inside a carrier bag; paperwork she'd taken home from the office, magazines, records, diaries. Books she hadn't finished reading, videos. Tapes. So many tapes, scattered everywhere, labelled with dates and names, chaotically organised, on the floor, on the table, in the player. He took every single one, not quite knowing why just yet but seeing the significance anyway. He didn't set foot in her bedroom.
Later, much later, when he'd parked somewhere off the beaten track, darkness surrounded him. Full moon.
"Guv?"
The voice should have startled him but for some reason it didn't. He sat up slowly, his head pounding, his entire body aching from sleeping on the back seat of the Quattro and he groaned.
"You alright Guv?"
He saw him then, sat in the drivers seat, looking as boyish and as full of life as he had been the last time he'd seen him. The very last time, it turned out. He wouldn't have done anything differently, he'd told himself long ago, wouldn't have changed anything about their parting words no matter how many times Annie's sobs told him otherwise.
"I'm not your Guv anymore, Tyler," he said in a whisper, frowning at the spectre on the seat in front of him. The moonlight bled into the dark car, parked down a random winding side street, and although the small smile, the oddly compassionate expression on his face made him seem painfully real, the silvery light that hovered about him made him look like a ghost. "You're dead, in case you'd forgotten."
Sam smiled sadly.
"You haven't," he said, cocking his head to one side, looking at him oddly and Gene suddenly felt so exposed, could feel that dull rage beginning to take him over again because that was always the base emotion when it came to Tyler.
Sam sighed then, frowning.
"Quite a mess you've gotten yourself into, Guv," he said, his tone nonchalant. Gene glared at him, backing up against the side of the car a little without realising. "One DI dead. Another heading the same way- "
"She's not dying," Gene said immediately, bitterness lacing the words, along with something else. Adamant denial, fear perhaps.
"No, not yet. Coma. Your fault, I hear."
There was silence between them.
"I didn't mean to," Gene said quietly, gripping onto the seat, feeling as though he was about to fall. His chest felt heavy, like every cigarette he'd ever smoked was suddenly choking him, suffocating him, and he was trapped. That weakness was starting to worm it's way back into his system and he forced it down, swallowing, letting fire back into his eyes. "She's not dying."
Sam sighed again, giving him a look then that he'd never seen before. Was it pity? No, not from Sam- never from Sam. It was just plain sorrow, for his Guv, his friend. It was worse, somehow.
"I know you didn't mean to."
He felt like he'd been waiting forever to hear those words, those prefect words. Not from Tyler though. He let out a breath, shaky and hoarse, his throat sore again. He saw her face again, heard the shot again.
"What do you want, Tyler?"
"Nothing," said Sam, smiling kindly and it made Gene want to punch him "Just wanted to...see how you're coping. You are coping, aren't you?"
"'Course I am." It was a whisper that contradicted his answer, and he knew there was no point in hiding himself from Sam but he tried anyway.
"Have you listened to her tapes yet?"
He swallowed. "No."
"Maybe you should. Might make you feel better, you know, hearing her voice again."
No, no it wouldn't. It would make him want to plummet down into hell itself, want to tear his hair out, claw at his skin, unable to keep the guilt at bay any longer.
"It's alright, you know," Sam said then, as if reading his thoughts. "It's alright to feel guilty. This is a dream remember. You don't have to hide from anyone."
"Don't have time to feel guilty," he lied, sniffing "Too busy tryin' to sort this mess out. Gotta keep fighting." Those last words were so quiet he wondered if Sam had heard them.
"Yes. You're right. Keep fighting. That's what she always said, after all."
He wished that he would stop talking in riddles, wished he would just make sense but then again, he never had. Why do I always attract the liars and the weirdos...
"She's spoken, you know," Sam said then, as if only just remembering. Gene froze. "Only a few words but...it's a sign, right? A sign of life?"
"What were they?" he asked quietly, suddenly terrified of the answer, terrified of the silent agony in his voice and he wanted to shove Tyler through the window, speed off into the night, carry on running.
"I shouldn't tell you," Sam said a little cryptically, his eyes darker than they had been before. "You aren't going to like it."
"You're lying," he spat out darkly, jaw stuck out defiantly, "You don't know anything about her. Stop pretending that you do."
"I only met her the once. She seemed...lonely. Cold. Like something was missing from her life. Shame about what happened to her."
Gene didn't say anything. He was talking about her like she was just a case, just a random name on another endless list. So absent, so detached from life. Were these the normal ramblings of a dead man, he wondered? Or was it just his own mind, piecing memories together, memories of Sam, of himself, of her, leaving him with this stranger?
"So what are you gonna do, Guv?" he asked, seeming desperate to know the answer.
He didn't have one though.
"What are you gonna do?"
Gene woke up, gasping, whacking his head on the roof of the Quattro. Daylight streamed in, blinding him. Sam was long gone.
Cold, stale air hit him suddenly as, without warning, she moved away from him and sat up in the bed, resting there for a short moment before standing up. Neither of them said anything, and the plea for her to return to his arms died in his throat as she pulled a silk robe from the wardrobe, wrapping herself in it- and she drew in a sudden sharp breath, wincing, bracing her self against the wardrobe door and holding her side.
Without thinking, he leapt from the warm cocoon of the bed, throwing his shirt on over his boxers and- stood there. Frozen, for a split second, unable to reach for her, terrified she might shatter in his grasp. He grabbed the glass of water that rested beside the bed and headed towards the door.
"Get you some painkillers," he mumbled, the first thing he'd said in what seemed like hours, keeping his head bowed low for some reason as he reached the door-
Suddenly her hand was on his arm and he stopped in his tracks, completely still, his heart lurching violently in his chest as his mind whirled, thudding with memories, past, present, future. He looked at her, unable to mask the longing in his gaze, a gaze that hurt even him. He saw her drawn face, the hollowness of her cheeks, the soul that should have been in her grey eyes. Say something, he willed, not for the first time. Talk to me.
"No," she said, a sigh escaping her. She took the glass from his hand, her fingers brushing lightly against his, before moving past him like a ghost, her smell, her breath, hovering past him. "I'll do it."
"Bolly- "
"Don't call me that."
He felt all the blood drain from his face as she left him stood there in her dark room, alone again, cold. He grabbed his trousers from the floor and shoved them on.
'I'm losing the fight...' A sob, a sniff, a short breath as she pulled herself together. 'I'm losing the fight and I...I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like every day I spend here I'm just falling faster away from her, from life. I don't know what's real and- '
He pressed eject, sick of this one, the same tearful laments that had surfaced on at least five others. To his credit, he'd played the first from start to finish, not really taking in the words, scrambled and disjointed, no sense in them whatsoever, but instead let the soothing tones of her near forgotten voice wash over him, feeling a strange kind of empty warmth as her words echoed in the car. Third night now, third night running, still had the car but still a little clueless as to where to go. North had been his first idea but he'd cut all ties with that place years ago, the only person who might put him up being Jackie and she was probably up to her eyeballs in God only knew what now, what with her kid. No family anymore- parents dead, brother dead. Mates that either hated him or mates who were dead.
He shoved another tape in the player at random, wiping a hand across his face and sucking stubbornly at his cigarette, letting the smoke fill the car, wrapping him up in a charcoal blanket.
'I don't know who he is, I've never known. He belongs to Sam Tyler, not to me, and it's always felt that way. When I was convinced he was MY construct he still felt separate from it all, still stood tall above everything else as though HE was the one in control. And I can still feel his grip on my hand at night, still feel the beat of his heart and manage to believe that he's real. I want to believe it- '
Some more random jargon but this time he could feel pain clawing at his innards again so he shut it off. He'd had enough now. Maybe try it again tomorrow. He hadn't learnt anything from it, only dredged up memories and feelings he just wanted to forget.
He'd dream about her tonight no doubt, Why not, it was due. He wondered how he'd deal with it, how he'd face the grey morning again, how he'd keep moving with out being dragged backwards by her adoring eyes. He'd stopped seeing the bullet recently, instead seeing her heartbroken tears as he'd told her to get out of his sight. Made a change. He felt no differently, felt nothing really now, no anger, no horror, nothing. Just a slightly mad desperation to find some answers.
When he did fall asleep, he was suddenly in a house he didn't recognise, white wash walls and a sterile smell, like those endless corridors in the hospital. Except this didn't feel grotty, didn't feel ill. It felt like something completely alien. He was sick of these dreams. If he were lucky he wouldn't remember this one.
A shadow danced across the wall and he was compelled to follow it, knowing it not to be a threat...yet not something welcoming either. He heard music, far away, as though it were being played underwater, nothing he recognised but sounding like an old wartime classic, a Glen Miller, a sound that belonged in the past. And breaking through the music, unsurprising, was her voice. Not from a tape but an old record player, scratchy and dull, bleeding through the walls as he moved slowly towards the shadow ahead.
'...and I...I wish I could believe it. But it's just going to hurt. If I believe that he's real then leaving him behind will only hurt..."
"Why?" he wondered aloud, his voice only a whisper yet echoing endlessly along the corridor. He noticed the pictures hung on the walls, all perfectly in line, not a single one askew, and he peered in the frame. Photos of her, surrounded by people, strangers, all their faces scribbled out with heavy black ink.
'I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could tell him about you Molly.'
He reached a darkened room at last, the shadow revealing itself. A small fragile figure, a tiny skinny thing and it was resting by a bed, leaning forward, whispering. He couldn't hear it though, the music was too loud, her voice was too loud.
'I was so lost and...I just felt safe, with him. Always have done. Oh God...'
"My Mum won't wake up," said the shadow, suddenly loud, suddenly shutting off any other noise. The voice was small...a child. He stopped where he was, feeling as though he was intruding. Didn't say anything either, didn't know what to say. "I thought she would but...she's just got worse. Gone much deeper into the woods. More and more lost."
Light suddenly fell across the room, from a window above the bed. Sunlight, it looked like, dust floating in the golden beams and the scene before him looked unbearably heavenly. He'd never felt more out of place. The shadow, just a young girl, so tiny, staring down at...her mother.
Alex.
"Molly," he said in sudden realisation. He stayed where he was, back against the wall, swallowing. "You're Molly." Had she ever even told him her daughter's name?
"She won't respond anymore. I talk to her all the time but...she's lost her way back. She's slipping away. Something is making her stop fighting."
He was locked in place; unable to move forward though he desperately wanted to.
"Wherever she is...it's not a good place. She's not where she thinks she is..."
"And where does she think she is?" His voice was but a whisper, yet it echoed across the room, reaching the child's ears. He still couldn't see her face.
"Home."
He yelled out when he woke up this time, his head splitting open, his eyes stinging, the girl's words still resonating.
Alex. He had to see her again.
He hovered in the doorway, watching her move slow and silent through the kitchenette, wincing each time she reached upward. She floated across the tiny space like she'd been programmed to do so; pouring away what was left in the glass, refilling it, pouring out her pills from the bottle by the sink, throwing them to the back of her throat bitterly. And then she was busying herself, tidying, placing random items in random cupboards and he wished he could walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her, breath in her scent again, mumble into the base of her neck all the things he should have said the minute she'd woken up.
"I'll get goin' then," he said, his voice hoarse and gravely, and she made no indication that she'd heard him, just sniffed slightly, double checking all the cupboards, for what he had no idea. He cleared his throat.
"I said- "
"I was happy here, you know," she said suddenly, cutting him off, both hands on the counter and hanging her head. Her voice was throaty, like she'd just woken up though he knew she hadn't slept. "So...content. It was like I'd finally found my, uh...my vocation. Like the job was made especially for me. Do you understand?"
She didn't look at him and her tone suggested that she wasn't really expecting a response from him so he stayed quiet, too far away to touch her yet close enough to see the quiet tension in her, close enough to be immersed in that wonderful fog of wine and perfume that still seemed to surround her, even after all this time.
"Shame, really. You can't have everything. I always knew that but...didn't stop it from hurting."
He felt useless, cold again.
"You not 'appy anymore then," he asked flatly, his voice so quiet, so low in his throat that it surprised him. And his words were laced with a bitter resentment, because it was a stupid question, one he already knew the answer to.
She finally turned to face him, looking so drawn and hollow, drained, and she stared up at him blankly, leaning against in the counter as though in pain- which she probably was.
"Do I not seem it, then?" she asked a little bitterly and he was unable to stop his eyes from straying to her stomach. She smiled wryly for a moment but it faded from her face just as quickly as it had arrived. "No. You tried to make it go back to normal but you couldn't, could you. Everything was different."
He stared at her sadly, still concealed slightly in the shadows of her bedroom, and hearing the blank, heartless tone in her voice he wanted to reach forward, grab her by the arms, shake some sense into her, get some feeling from her. Anything; pain, hurt, rage, sorrow. Anything but this terrifying coldness that never seemed to end.
Her gaze was suddenly piercing; not judging, not hurt, but an intensity there that he'd been longing to see for days, that spark of life, that fire. Bolly.
No...not anymore...
"I lost you."
He felt the twist in his gut first and to block it out he retorted immediately; "What you on about...I'm right here- "
"Not really though. Always hovering in the doorway. Wherever we are."
He swallowed, emotion rising inside of him, staring at her with a hurt expression yet showing the world every one of his feelings for her. Closing his eyes quickly, trying to compose himself but failing, he almost pleaded with her.
"You 'aven't lost me."
She continued to stare at him, longing in her gaze but not for him, for something else. For the life they used to share, for the life she wanted.
"You should go," she whispered.
It was the first time they'd been alone since she'd woken up. Not including the actual moment itself. The moment he'd been praying for, the moment of his supposed salvation and yet it still haunted him, the worst nightmares he'd had since Tyler died.
'Wherever you think you are...it's not it, okay? You're not 'ome. Your little girl ain't there with you.'
Those words, words he didn't even understand, the words that had finally woken her. Given to him from some phantom from a half forgotten dream. And her eyelids had fluttered open, so slowly. One word left her, in a scream, so heart breaking and loud, still echoing in his head now, still tormenting him more than any other vision of her. One blood-curdling scream.
NO.
He barely remembered most of that day, lost in a black cloud of his own kaleidoscope of emotion, joy, unsurpassed relief, yet aching with an agony so acute he couldn't explain it. He couldn't face her now, realising that he was terrified, no idea why. Days passed as she recuperated, pieced herself back together again. He stayed away.
Suddenly he was told that he didn't have to run anymore. She'd rescued him. Maybe there was some hope then.
He didn't give her a chance to slam the door in his face; he strode through, walked past her, shaking, unable to let her see him weak, even now. Even now.
They stood there in silence; not awkward, no, worse, painful, physically hurting. She didn't seem shocked or affronted, only in her dressing gown and underwear, and he felt like they were frozen in time, like the rest of the world had stopped around them. He didn't know what he wanted from her, couldn't find any words. Only one left him in a sigh that betrayed him completely, only one word that meant so little and meant so much.
"Bolly."
The calm before the storm. Silence.
Without warning she suddenly let out a horrific scream, a sound so vile, so tormented, and she hurled a glass across the flat, still screaming as it shattered into the wall. It didn't silence her, just left her stood there fuming, noises escaping her that sounded like half sobs, tears in her dark, dangerous eyes and he could do nothing but close his, lean back against the wall, wipe a hand over his face and wait for what he knew was coming.
"DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME THAT AGAIN!" she shrieked, and he felt her pull at his shirt, her hands balled into fists, yanking him towards her. "Do you understand me? LOOK AT ME!"
He opened his eyes, finding solace once more in his anger, his only ally, and he stood silently with a dark expression, much better than the helpless one that was threatening to break onto his face. He stared at her, a wildness in her eyes that hurt to look at, which cut him up inside.
"I didn't come back for you, you know," she forced out through her teeth, venom in her words, loathing in her gaze. "I didn't have a choice, I didn't want to wake up back here!"
He remained silent, let her continue, every word that left her lips like a bullet to the stomach. Fitting, he thought.
"Why would I want to come back to YOU?" she said darkly through her tears, her voice low in her throat. "The person who I opened my heart to but didn't believe me, didn't TRUST me! The man who thought I was BENT! The man who put a FUCKING BULLET IN MY STOMACH!"
He closed his eyes, feeling his face collapsing in on itself, his jaw beginning to tremble and he grabbed hold of her wrists.
"Did you feel guilty about that, Gene? Did it cut you up inside, did it drive you mad, make you sick? Or were you just scared shitless they'd send you down!?"
"It weren't like that!" The words burst out of him, hurting as they ripped through his throat, and he shook her as he said them. She let out a horrible false laugh then, breaking through her sobs, and glared at him with a look of utter disgust.
"Yes, that's right, keep shouting, just keep FUCKING SCREAMING until your lungs burst, that'll wake me up! Torment me, hurt me, haunt me until I just wished I was DEAD!"
With a strangled cry, she pulled away from him and brought her palm across his cheek with a sting, the impossibly loud crack shattering the air around them. And another. Another, and then he grabbed her arms, shoved her away, but she charged into him, fists flying, screaming at him.
"YOU BASTARD!"
Another blow, right to his jaw and he grabbed her wrist, yanked her backwards, twisting it behind her back in an aggressive attempt to restrain her but she kicked him in the shin, struggling against him wildly. She twisted out of his pathetic grip and staggered forwards, her arms pushing plates and mugs off the counter, the endless clatter and crashes sounding like gunfire, and before he could reach her she'd grabbed hold of some heavy piece of crockery and hurled it at him, straight towards his head and it crashed into the wall behind him, splintering, shards stabbing into his face, cutting him above the eye and he couldn't stop himself from roaring in pain.
"You brought me back here!" he heard her scream, heard another glass shatter beside him "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"
Time stood still. She lunged for him again but he was blinded by his long dormant loathing for her, every single heart breaking moment he'd spent with her flashing brilliantly before him, and before he knew what he was doing he'd lifted her off the ground, charging forwards, throwing her onto the sofa, ignoring her sudden scream at the pain that must have been stabbing violently at her stomach. He didn't care, couldn't care, could only see her broken body sprawled on the stone courtyard, blood pooling around her, and he felt it all again, the worst pain of his entire life, every minute of it caused by her. Letting out a primal sort of growl, he clambered on top of her, straddling her, pinning her wrists above her head with no idea what he was doing and she sobbed through another wild shriek, kneeing him straight in the groin; he let out a strangled howl of agony, doubling over and tumbling towards the floor, her tiny body flying towards him again.
Her fist hammered forcefully into his chest and it almost winded him, but he shoved her off, tangled, rolling across the carpet so he was on top of her again, stared at her for a moment aghast, feeling sick to his stomach. He held her there with a trembling grip, noticed her dressing gown had slid open.
The gaping wound in her stomach silently screamed at him and said more than her tearful, manic shrieks ever could.
"I'm not fighting you!" he yelled desperately, his face close to hers and she cried out wildly again as he held her arms to the floor. Her chest was heaving with sobs but he couldn't think properly, couldn't breathe normally, certain that there were no two people in this world that were as messed up as the two of them, that the endless web they were caught in was finally closing in around them, meshing them together whether they liked it or not.
"I hate you!" she screamed, spit flying into his face and she struggled beneath him as though she were possessed, as though the devil himself was trying to break free. "I HATE YOU!"
She was crying in full then, suddenly ceasing all movement and turning limp beneath him and he felt like she was a rag-doll, all her stitching loose and all the stuffing ripped out of her. He moaned in agony; its sounded like the beginnings of a sob but he sucked it in, his breathing laboured, and he lifted his hands away from her wrists so he could hold her face, her face that was contorted in anguish. Hands shaking, he wiped the tears from her eyes and she was too weak to brush him off, to weak to protest as he kissed her almost aggressively on the forehead, though he had no right to. Another kiss, another, in quick succession, the words 'I'm sorry' dying in his throat because what good would they do, how could they possibly convey how sorry he actually was, for everything.
She calmed slightly, her hand clutching at her stomach and, appalled, he clambered off of her- but blindly she reached out for him, pulling herself up with him as he fell back against the sofa. She was sitting awkwardly in his lap, holding onto him, shaking her head, clenching her teeth, and her hands were suddenly on his face. Their foreheads rested against each other, their shallow breathing merging together and he tried to get words out but the moment was so raw, so full of agony, he wasn't sure if he could do it.
"Oh Alex..." he moaned finally, gritting his teeth together, feeling as though tears were about to burst forth but it had been so long since they had he'd forgotten what it felt like. "Alex..."
I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I was a fool not to trust you. I still love you.
She kissed him, those words hovering in the air between them.
He sat on the edge of her bed, buttoning up his shirt. He could hear her in the room, pottering about again, looking through her wardrobe, smoothing out the bed sheets, looking out her window onto the dark street below. He wrapped his tie around his hand distractedly, elbows on his knees as he stared grimly down at the carpet.
You should go. Far, far away, from her. No point in this, whatever it was, it wasn't going anywhere, had come from tragedy and pain, over before it had even begun. A hazy fog began to shroud his memories, of drinking in Luigi's, of laughing with her, of arguing with her, of the grudging respect that had formed between them, of their perfect relationship back then. Perfect, but not good enough for him. And he'd ruined it.
He pulled his tie over his neck, unaware of his actions as his mind slipped further into the past. Perfect had been back in Manchester, back before he had met her, before his wife left, before Tyler died. Those were the golden days, the days that weren't tainted by guilt or sorrow, days that had no beginning or end. Just day after day, no real upset or grief, a job to go to, friends to drink with, a wife to come home to. He frowned, disbelieving, his hands pulling at his tie but not tying it...how had it all changed so drastically...how had he ended up here?
He tried again with the tie, crossing it over, pulling at the knot, but it was wrong, it just fell off his shirt.
Why would I want to come back to you...the man who didn't trust me...the man who put a fucking bullet in my stomach...
He forgot where he was. He forgot she was in the room. He let out a primal yell, hammering through the heavy silence, grabbing his tie and throwing it away from him, his head falling into his shaking hands. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, feeling them sting, feeling the aching lump in his throat, feeling lost. Adrift...more like at the bottom of the ocean...
And then he felt it. The sob. Muffled by his hands, sounding like a sniff but he knew it for what it really was, knew it to be the weakness, the breakdown, rearing its ugly head again except this time there was no where to run, no reason to push forward. This was it. Everything was finally crashing down around him.
And she was there to see.
So lost in himself, he was unaware as she moved gracefully across the room, picking up his tie and then kneeling in front of him. He was in a daze as she reached for his hands, pulled them away, didn't look at his face as she slowly wrapped her arms around his neck and began to position his tie. His hands fell onto her arms and he looked down, unable to bear the sight of her, so lovely, so forgiving.
She looked up when she was finished, and he brought his head up to gaze back at her. She looked a little sleepy but he could see that there were tears in her own eyes, could see a shy smile on her face, a smile of regret, but then again...a smile. The first one he'd seen from her since she'd woken, the most beautiful thing in the world. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath, swallowing down the lump; thankful only one muted sob had escaped him. Couldn't bear the thought of breaking down completely, had come so close to it in the past week, but somehow held on.
She sighed, placing a hand on his face, shaking her head slightly.
"It's okay..." she said, her voice strangled by tears. "It's okay..."
"How," he asked in a whisper, jaw stuck out in defiance. He held her wrists again. "How the...how the bloody hell is it okay?"
"I don't know." She shut her eyes tightly; he could feel her shaking. "I don't know. But I, uh...I don't think I could hate you as much as I do if I didn't still love you."
They stared into each other's eyes, holding on to one another, that connection between them he thought he'd severed long ago suddenly feeling real again, suddenly feeling as if it meant something, meant more than anything else. His heart swelled in his chest.
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said." He smiled half-heartedly.
And she laughed. He pressed a kiss to her palm and she let him, letting out a small sigh. She didn't say a word- but he understood her as plain as day
It's okay. I'll forgive you. One day.
"Bolly," he said with a sigh, without thinking.
She didn't protest this time though.