[MGW] 140. The Corner
Jan. 26th, 2009 11:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_risk[Following this]
Everyone had finally gone, the house seemingly unnaturally silent after the commotion of teleportation, magic and demon heads. Sark's restlessness had given way to something like preternatural stillness after the spell. When it appeared like it wasn't going to work, something had started slipping, and he wasn't sure where he stood in the aftermath. He held her as she clung, managed the words of thanks to those who had made it possible, quietly getting through saying the right things, doing the right things, in some sort of rote mode of training in this is what you do. It was over, after all, everything seemed to say. She knew him, knew them, knew herself, and it was over, just like that, but he couldn't quite get his muscles to believe it, or his mind to let go of the hyper-alert, hyper-aware state he'd been living in for the past week.
Stretching out on the bed beside her, he willed himself to relax and just hold her, fingers running through her hair, light at her temples and over her scalp, trying to ease her headache just a bit. It was something to do, something to hold on to, just like he'd been doing since they brought her home with that horrendous blankness in her eyes. Only when she'd fallen asleep did he ease off the bed and head back downstairs, trying not to trip on the dog and the puppy who'd apparently decided they, too, needed to stand guard right at the bedroom door, sprawled in a double line across the doorway.
There was demon blood in the kitchen, after all, and he didn't want her to have to see that. At least he was used to cleaning up blood, knew how to get rid of it, to eradicate all signs that there'd been any sort of decapitated presence in the room at all. More of his training, coming to the forefront, he supposed as he disposed of the evidence. Then there was just a sparkling kitchen and a silent house and the smell of bleach burning in his nose. Back upstairs, moving unconsciously with the stealth he'd practiced for so long so as not to make a noise, he stepped over the dogs again, and stood watching her sleep for a moment in their bed. Not the guest room, but where she belonged.
Something hurt in the vicinity of his chest, choking in his throat, unfamiliar and burning, rare enough that it took him a moment to recognize the feeling. He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood to focus on that pain and keep back any sound, and retreated to the bathroom. His clothes hit the floor in an untidy heap. Blood and bleach stained, they could be burned for all he cared, and they were the least of his worries for the moment. The shower water hit him hard and hot, nearly scalding his skin, but it was something else to focus on, another feeling besides the tightness that kept welling, and he had some lingering thought in his head that the heat itself might stop the trembling he felt beginning.
It didn't.
Shinvering hard enough that he didn't think his legs would hold him, Julian let himself sink to the shower floor, pressing his back into the corner of the wall, against cold tile. Contrast of hot and cold, physical sensation, something, anything to fixate on that he could control. Because he had to stay in control. Because there were going to be repercussions. She would still need him. Neither Peter nor Sylar had looked well, and Adam...he had to stay together, find a way, because he wasn't the one who fell apart. It wasn't him.
But he'd lost her. If only for a week, he'd lost her. Even if her body had been there, he'd lost her. Despite telling everyone who was listen how certain he was that they would fix it, he'd lost her. Like Allison. Like Lauren. Like Irina. Death was a constant companion in his life, but there was something like invincibility that knowing Adam and Sylar had lent to him, because when your best friends could conquer death itself, what was there to fear? But their power hadn't been able to bring her back, after all, and he'd lost her.
He didn't realize he was crying, tears mingling with the water from the shower, until the sound of his sobs registered in his ears. With a valiant effort, he tried to hold them back, to make them stop, but they wouldn't, forcing themselves out past every wall he'd erected for the past three years. One fist hit the tile of the shower floor beneath him, but not even the jarring pain from the force of it would stop the flow now that it had stopped. He hadn't shed a tear in three years, not even when she fell, and now he couldn't seem to stop, finally just dropping his head to his knees, and, huddled in the corner of the shower, shaking with the force of the sobs, he let them come.
Everyone had finally gone, the house seemingly unnaturally silent after the commotion of teleportation, magic and demon heads. Sark's restlessness had given way to something like preternatural stillness after the spell. When it appeared like it wasn't going to work, something had started slipping, and he wasn't sure where he stood in the aftermath. He held her as she clung, managed the words of thanks to those who had made it possible, quietly getting through saying the right things, doing the right things, in some sort of rote mode of training in this is what you do. It was over, after all, everything seemed to say. She knew him, knew them, knew herself, and it was over, just like that, but he couldn't quite get his muscles to believe it, or his mind to let go of the hyper-alert, hyper-aware state he'd been living in for the past week.
Stretching out on the bed beside her, he willed himself to relax and just hold her, fingers running through her hair, light at her temples and over her scalp, trying to ease her headache just a bit. It was something to do, something to hold on to, just like he'd been doing since they brought her home with that horrendous blankness in her eyes. Only when she'd fallen asleep did he ease off the bed and head back downstairs, trying not to trip on the dog and the puppy who'd apparently decided they, too, needed to stand guard right at the bedroom door, sprawled in a double line across the doorway.
There was demon blood in the kitchen, after all, and he didn't want her to have to see that. At least he was used to cleaning up blood, knew how to get rid of it, to eradicate all signs that there'd been any sort of decapitated presence in the room at all. More of his training, coming to the forefront, he supposed as he disposed of the evidence. Then there was just a sparkling kitchen and a silent house and the smell of bleach burning in his nose. Back upstairs, moving unconsciously with the stealth he'd practiced for so long so as not to make a noise, he stepped over the dogs again, and stood watching her sleep for a moment in their bed. Not the guest room, but where she belonged.
Something hurt in the vicinity of his chest, choking in his throat, unfamiliar and burning, rare enough that it took him a moment to recognize the feeling. He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood to focus on that pain and keep back any sound, and retreated to the bathroom. His clothes hit the floor in an untidy heap. Blood and bleach stained, they could be burned for all he cared, and they were the least of his worries for the moment. The shower water hit him hard and hot, nearly scalding his skin, but it was something else to focus on, another feeling besides the tightness that kept welling, and he had some lingering thought in his head that the heat itself might stop the trembling he felt beginning.
It didn't.
Shinvering hard enough that he didn't think his legs would hold him, Julian let himself sink to the shower floor, pressing his back into the corner of the wall, against cold tile. Contrast of hot and cold, physical sensation, something, anything to fixate on that he could control. Because he had to stay in control. Because there were going to be repercussions. She would still need him. Neither Peter nor Sylar had looked well, and Adam...he had to stay together, find a way, because he wasn't the one who fell apart. It wasn't him.
But he'd lost her. If only for a week, he'd lost her. Even if her body had been there, he'd lost her. Despite telling everyone who was listen how certain he was that they would fix it, he'd lost her. Like Allison. Like Lauren. Like Irina. Death was a constant companion in his life, but there was something like invincibility that knowing Adam and Sylar had lent to him, because when your best friends could conquer death itself, what was there to fear? But their power hadn't been able to bring her back, after all, and he'd lost her.
He didn't realize he was crying, tears mingling with the water from the shower, until the sound of his sobs registered in his ears. With a valiant effort, he tried to hold them back, to make them stop, but they wouldn't, forcing themselves out past every wall he'd erected for the past three years. One fist hit the tile of the shower floor beneath him, but not even the jarring pain from the force of it would stop the flow now that it had stopped. He hadn't shed a tear in three years, not even when she fell, and now he couldn't seem to stop, finally just dropping his head to his knees, and, huddled in the corner of the shower, shaking with the force of the sobs, he let them come.
