Warnings: depression and slight madness (or what you call it before insanity)
Characters: Allen, and the interrogator (unnamed. you can make it up.) ... no pairings.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. no profit made and no harm done.

Background:(from the very beginning of "seed of destruction" arc).

Summary: Even a well trained young man might have less than polite things to think when he's in pain and thirsty. Character driven study- first person present.

(Voiceless.)

I can taste the words behind my tongue. They swim, trying to get out. Nasty, horrible things that would mar my host's elegance. Might stain white gloves and bar me from opening my mouth again.

I smile, and let only politeness exit my spread lips. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" The whole of the conversation jumbled down and swallowed by those tiny words.

I put the teacup down on the saucer, but it slides from any kind of perfect position. Tilted diagonal by the gentle incline of the plate that I so carelessly ignored, unable to find the center while I was trying to remember. To imagine the world from before.

More words teeter on my teeth, like clumsy birds all vying for position or waiting for crumbs. Trying to get out. I swallow and keep them down, starving them.

"It's time for you to answer a few questions." The man is the model of concern, my dear host. A crease on the brow and full lips turned down. "Could you do this for us?" His hands, though, are a blur of motion before me. He puts the teacup back correctly, yes, and then pours a stream of hot, gloriously warmliquid out and into the thin china, though I've barely touched it. Such consideration.

I offer a thin smile. It's the best I can do, even in light of the care he's putting on for show.

I can feel the truth again, and it pecks at my lips from the inside. I cover my mouth with a gloved hand, and cough lightly. Maybe it will be enough to keep still.

I then put both hands around the china cup, as though to warm them. "I'm not sure there's anything to be said," I offer quietly. Nothing they would like, anyways. Nothing at all polite.

The man's eyes are kind. "Yes," he sighs. He leans back in the elegantly shaped chair—a thing meant for tea parties and sunlight rendezvous, I think. The wrought iron was painted over in white, pristine and complementary to the glass table and transparent teapot. All quite clean. All in full view. Nothing to doubt or misunderstand at all. Quite a nice touch, that. "We were afraid you might think so."

I nod. Keep my chin inclined so my hair covers my face just so. I take slow, even breaths. I'm only just keeping myself from leaning over the hot cup and breathing the vapor the way I might have when I was a child.

But he doesn't let the silence stand. He gently stirs the tea leaves in the pot by rocking it in a small circle. The centripetal force keeps the water sloshing in a curve, hitting the glass walls only occasionally in tiny tidal waves that might only hurt a butterfly. I realize he's speaking, and catch only the last of the words. "—thing at all, my dear boy," and his voice is soothing.

At his urging, the words stick in my dry mouth. My tongue feels heavy, my eyes like shrunken, itching balls. I blink rapidly, badly wanting to drop all pretense of manners and just drink.

And then speak, letting fly a thousand paper cranes turned into mourning sparrows, telling truths that ought to be lies, and making the whole world try and forget what ought never have been. Really. The best defense is silence. But courtesy ought to be met with something.

"Really," I insist. The one word bites. The truth etches itself into my tongue on white wings, and it has golden eyes.

He settles back into the sculpted chair. Looks at me sorrily, and nods at another pitcher. His hands have left the tea with its disguised hidden flavor, and he only gestures at the water. "Honestly, Allen. You haven't anything to worry about. Just tell us what you know, and we'll do everything we can to help you. To help the cause." His hands, open and yet full of energy, motion again to the pitcher.

It's not biting anymore. It gnaws. And its appetite is more vicious than mine ever was.

"The truth, Allen." His kind eyes are wide, and the forgiving jaw is stern.

Truth.

It couldn't be more confusing, more treacherous if it had come from my worst enemy's mouth.

I look down. Lift the cup, and long to wet my tongue.

The interrogator looks up. Smiles at me. I wish the man would go away.

"Please," I say, scraping my lips together. "Just leave."

And in a whisper of clothes fluttering, a sigh of disappointment, he stands. I think I hear a flutter of wings. I look up to see him pass out of my cell.

But there's nothing there. Nothing at all.

I close my eyes and wish.

That's all there is left.

All that there is.

(fin)

Thoughts?