Gun. Hand. Throat.
by B. Cavis
Gun. Hand. Throat.
by B. Cavis
Gun. Hand. Throat. A revenge in three parts.
Anger and hatred and pure blood lust that tastes sweet and bitter at the same time. The haze of sweat clouding everything, and the tint of emotion that paints everything biased.
Nothing can compare with this feeling. This pure, untouchable rage that pushes lips back to expose white teeth and polished canines. The boiling hot emotion that clogs everything else up-- the out right FURY that some bastard touched something he had no right to touch, and that the same bastard took what he had no right to take, and that said bastard happens to be sitting right freaking here.
He was mine, hisses some unidentifiable part of an ancestor's make up that was too feral to be kept around to see the dawn of television and electricity.
The world has shrunk to consist of blood lust and hatred.
And of course, Bobby: "Alex, you don't want to do this. He's not worth-" Sad little boy, growls her pain. Sad, pathetic little boy still wanting a hug from his mama.
But mama's insane now, whispers the part of her that can't care about other people. Mama's gone nut-so and left you with a wounded heart and a head full of ghosts.
Poor lost little cunt, she thinks to herself, and the sound that comes out of her is a full fledged snarl now.
He was mine runs down her skin in a way that could be mistaken for sweat, but that she knows isn't, and anyone who touched her would know it too. Pain is dripping off her forehead, and hurt is getting in her eyes, and all she can see is the blood speckled badge that she keeps in a shoe box up in her closet.
Your ass is mine, she tells him with her eyes, and the warm puddle of taxi cab yellow piss that pools at their feet tells her he got the message. Loud enough and clear enough to be afraid.
You're a dead man now, Skippy.
He should have been dead a long time ago. He would have been, and she thinks now that maybe he has been the whole time. Marked for death. Marked for her extermination.
Dead and sane but breathing on a technicality. Guilty but free and out on a mistake. Sleeping in his own bed because of legalities.
This man's life is a lawyer's mistake. A misstep on the path of justice.
"Well," she growls in his eye sockets. "Allow me to set you back on the path, my friend." And he starts crying.
A mistake of the justice system.
Gun. Hand. Throat. One she will rectify now, without delay and without mercy.
John had taken both of her hands in his the night he had proposed. Afraid and shaking with his own heart beat, he'd met her eyes and looked nauseous.
She'd found the ring in his pocket a week before, but she wasn't going to tell him that just yet. This was too much fun, and she'd made herself look as puzzled and surprised as possible.
He'd swallowed. Met her eyes. Swallowed again. He was sweating and shaking like an epileptic, and she was almost afraid that the idea of marrying her was going to break him before he even did it when his mouth finally opened.
"Marry me," he said, and his voice cracked.
And before she could answer, he was on his hands and knees on the floor, clutching his head in between his hands and groaning.
"Oh God that sounded so stupid!" By this point she had been laughing into her fist and trying hard not to accidentally crush his soul under foot. "I had this all planned out-- you gotta believe me! I've been doing this in my head for the past five weeks, and it's never once sounded that lame. It was going to be great." He started cursing, and the nearest table started to shift uncomfortably. "Fuck it! This was going to be perfect, not fuckwaded up! I was supposed to sound suave and impressive, and this isn't-"
He'd stopped talking. Stopped breathing. She had put her napkin carefully on the table, spread her skirt out, and gotten down on the ground next to him, kneeling on the floor in the middle of a three star restaurant. His face was cool between her palms, and she had to fight to drag it up to make him face her. He blinked and she wondered if maybe she had broken something after all.
"I will marry you, John. I'll be proud to be your wife, and I would never want anyone else but you to be my husband."
That had seriously blown a gasket. He forgot to swallow, and she giggled as a bit of drool came out of the corner of his mouth. Wow, she had thought, I just performed a frontal lobotomy with two sentences. Nifty.
Then he'd whooped. He'd screamed, he'd cheered and made general merriment. He'd stood up and pulled her up to come with him, and before she knew what was happening, he was spinning her around and she was laughing like she'd never laughed before. There were tears coming out of her eyes and out of his, and they met on his collar.
People were applauding, and she had no idea why, and she hadn't cared.
The ring had come out-- modest but beautiful, and she had grinned as it went onto her ring finger and sparkled like a trapped fairy in the candlelight.
He had been kissing every part of her face that he could get to, and she had been shaking and loving him and feeling like she had just won the biggest prize in the world, and everything was just 100% too good to be true right then and there.
"I love you, Alex," he'd whispered, and she'd known he meant it.
"I love you," she'd answered back, and her heart knew that nothing in the universe could make her any happier than she was right that moment.
Gun. Hand. Throat. The stench of urine in her nose and the taste of vengeance in her mouth are the only strong stimuli in the room.
Langdon is crying. Begging for mercy that won't come. "I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!" He's squirming and whimpering and screaming his innocence out, but that's all one big fat ugly lie that she won't listen to.
He meant it. He meant every little minute of it.
He may be repenting in her death clutch, but she can see the lie crawling on his skin and breeding in his throat, and it makes her teeth itch. She wants to open her mouth wide and clamp it down on his face. She aches to hear his nose crunching and breaking between her incisors.
She can sense the big man off to her right, holding himself back. One foot raises up to come closer to her and her rightful kill, and she turns and looks at him with such a look of territorial hatred that he takes a step backwards instead.
His eyes are good at reading hers. Better than Langdon's-- good enough to hear every word her skin is saying.
If you try and stop me, I will shoot him, and then I will shoot you.
His throat works up and down, and she turns back to Langdon, who is now trying to pray to her in place of Jesus, who apparently isn't listening.
He's listening. For the first time in years, the first time since the badge became dotted with blood, Alex has the ear of God.
She's not letting go.
But, of course, the big man is going to keep trying. That's his job-- to be a pain in everyone's ass when he's so obviously not needed and just intruding.
This isn't his matter, and it wasn't going to be until he opened his big mouth and put his own ass into it.
"You can't do this Alex," and she wants to roll her eyes at the cliche, but they're too busy absorbing and treasuring the fear this man-- no, this thing has for her.
Screw the fear of God. This is the fear of Alex.
"It's not right-"
"Shut. Up." And his mouth closes without a sound. She can feel the hair on her entire body up and pointing, as if she just jumped into the snow naked and rolled around. "Just be quiet, Bobby."
So he does, and it occurs to her that if she managed to silence him, than she must be looking pretty scary right about now.
She leans close, close enough to kiss him, and Langdon stops his whimpers long enough for her to get a word in edgewise. He's frightened-- and he thinks she might be offering him a way to redeem his life and save himself.
"He was my husband," she whispers, and the man's eyes go wide in horror. He would gasp in shock and hopelessness if he wasn't crying so hard.
Bobby does it for him. She can hear his body tense up in the corner, and she flexes her back muscles. He gets it now. Good.
"He was my husband," she repeats. "He was a good man, and I loved him."
Gun. Throat. Death. A nice three part progression.
On their wedding day, he'd seen her in her dress.
Actually, he had broken into her chamber and leered at her relentlessly until she had given up and let him come in. No warnings about the superstitions had deterred him, and in the end she had opened up her room without much of a fight.
Alex never did much believe in superstitions.
He'd produced a bottle of champagne from behind his back, and the other hand had two thin stemmed glasses in it.
They'd opened up the bottle and sat down on the floor drinking together. He had put his arm around her shoulders, and she had linked her fingers in his belt.
"I'm nervous," John Mycroft had whispered into her hair.
"Me too," she'd answered back, and he had nodded and said he didn't feel so bad then.
They'd gotten a good buzz on, nice and fuzzy and detached from bubbles, and when the time came to kiss the bride, they tasted the champagne on each other's lips and laughed.
They'd held hands for the entire service. Her bouquet had been put down on the floor so she could touch him, and none of her bride's maids had been able to dissuade her not to. The flower girl had giggled and whispered that one day she wanted to be just like "auntie Alex."
So they'd held hands. Wasn't a crime. He had squeezed, and she couldn't let go, and then suddenly they were saying "I do" and everything was just fine.
She never felt her feet touching the isle on the way out of the church. The uniformed police officers outside had performed a salute to the both of them, and the last one had clamped a pair of handcuffs on the both of them to link them together.
She had sat in the limo, holding her husband's hand with her job around her wrists, and never been happier.
He's trying to save her again. He really should stop that. People will think they're in love or something.
"What will killing him do?"
So smug. Thinks he knows all of the freaking answers. Where was he when she had to watch his coffin be lowered into the ground amidst a field of blue.
"Huh?" He takes a step forward, and she snarls, but he doesn't move back. "It won't bring him back. It won't make this scum any sorrier for what he did. It will just leave you in a position you really don't want to be in." His voice cracked a little, and he takes a moment to clear it nervously. "They'll take you away, Alex. They'll take you away from Major Case and from... us, and you'll spend the rest of your life in prison for killing this slime."
"It will make me feel," she pauses, "much, much better about just about everything." She changes the angle of the gun, and now it's biting into the soft, vulnerable area underneath his chin. "How about it Langdon? Huh? You wanna make me feel much, much better about everything that you fucked up?" She laughs, and the big man winces. "Sure you do."
She can feel the pain that she had so carefully locked coming for her now, beating at her sides and pinching her skin. To her complete and utter horror, she can feel the tears coming out her of eyes-- the same tears that she hasn't allowed herself the comfort of in over six years.
Murder's one thing, but now she's crying in front of Bobby. God, how embarrassing.
It was raining when they came to her. Raining and beautiful and warm. She had sat outside of the fire escape and let the water run over her legs and clean small patches of her skin in cold, pure droplets.
It felt like heaven, and she had been thoroughly enjoying her impromptu bath before someone knocked.
Detective Jake Rice had been John's best man. When they were kids, Jake had convinced John that if he just held the sheet tight enough, he could parachute off the building without a problem, which was where John got the scar on his left arm. He had gone drinking with them both, and she trusted him in her apartment when she was in the shower.
He was crying when she got to the door. Thick, hot tears, and she couldn't figure out for the life of her why. She pulled him in and demanded to know where he was hurt, why he hadn't gone to the hospital, how it had happened...
And he had taken her in his arms and hugged her. Held her.
And she had known. Just... known.
John wasn't coming home. John was never coming home. John was lying in a body bag with a two .38 shots through the chest.
Because of a little white assed mother fucking punk named Langdon.
He won't get away with this, Jake had told her in a desperate tear soaked voice. We won't let him get away with this-- we take care of our own.
You're one of our own, Alex. You both are.
The biggest lie anyone ever told Alex was that justice would prevail. Justice was a pussy, and Justice could be beaten into submission if you knew how.
John's grave is covered with flowers three times a year-- his birthday, his death day, and the day they got married.
She makes sure of it.
Bobby runs a hand through his hair and she can sense his shoulder's going back.
"You loved him."
"And you want his killer dead. You should." He pounds his hand down on the table and bobs his head. "You should want him dead and dragged through the streets behind a van. He should be dead and dragged through the streets behind a van!" He sits down on the edge of the table and crosses his arms.
She's become a suspect without evening realizing it; she's become an interrogation room victim.
"It will make you feel better. I think it might." He's nodding, brow furrowed, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes to wet his collar the way hers did when John put that sparkle on her finger.
She looks down at her right ring finger at the white gold and diamond, and takes a deep breath.
"If anyone asks, he attacked you."
She does a quick take over at him. His face is blank and dull and tired, but there's the same look in his eyes that he gives her when she needs him, and it's never been more focused than it is right now.
"I will lie for you, Alex. In this, I will lie for you." His shoulders go back.
The blue wall of silence is the nicest gift she was ever given.
"But the camera behind the glass won't. And you know it."
She does. She does and she doesn't care. She knows the man in evidence. Tony knew John. If that tape goes down anywhere, it will disappear before anyone can see it.
"I think that you might have a way to fix that," he mutters, "because you are nothing if not resourceful. You could probably find a way to keep that tape from ever showing up."
And it's true.
"But if Deakins is behind that window-- if Carver is looming on the other end of the two way mirror... they won't forget."
Her back arches. Her eyes close tightly, painfully, and the tears come down quicker now.
"You'll go away," he whispers. "You'll go away from me, you'll go to jail and you'll never come back, and if you can look inside your head and tell me that that is what he would want for you, than go ahead and pull the trigger, Alex."
Silence. The whimpers of Langdon in front of her, the breathing of Bobby to her right. And John, in her head, whispering to her.
"I love you, Alex."
And as much as she misses him, as much as she knows how totally corny it is to hear him in her head, all she can feel is the wave of heat being generated from the big man in the suit.
John. Who would kill if he saw her sitting in a cell.
Bobby. Who would die without her there to keep him.
Her gun has left a bright red bruise on his neck. A metal hickey. There's blood underneath his chin where she pressed just a little bit too hard and hurt just a little too much.
Her belt leather is cool against her wrist as she re-holsters her gun. She clicks the snap closed on top and pulls her jacket back to cover herself. And drops her hand from the man's neck.
Langdon falls to the floor, face first in his piss, crying and begging and shaking. She could press a boot on his back right now and leave him dead or paralyzed.
She turns, straightens her back and lowers her hackles. The feral part of her disappears long enough for her lips to come back down to hide her teeth, and the muscles in her arms stop flexing.
The violence gets swallowed down into her stomach. The pain runs down her body and gets soaked up by her deodorant.
The drama leaves her spine, and she is once again Detective Alex Eames.
Alex Mycroft Eames. "You're crying, Bobby."
He touches his own cheek in surprise, smiles briefly, and takes his handkerchief out and offers it to her. "So are you."
"We must be looking pretty shitty right about now."
Grin. "Yeah," he mutters, and wipes away her tears himself. "But I don't think anyone will mind."
"No." He tucks the scrap of linen back into his pocket as two more men in blue enter the room and pick Langdon out of his own piss puddle.
One of them nods to her. None of this ever happened.
He takes her around the shoulders before she can stay and linger. Takes her out into the area behind the glass and keeps her there. Lets her look into the room where she almost became a cold blooded killer, and looks pleased when she doesn't say anything.
Bobby's dark head nods, once, twice, and he folds his arms over his chest to keep his hands from twitching. "You wanna get something to eat?" Her eyes don't move from the dim room in front of her.
I almost lost myself, hums through her head, and she sighs and sets her back firmly and steel infused.
He found me, though, she thinks, and nods to herself. They both did.
"Yeah." And his eyes smile cheerfully. "I think I would."
Okay, she thinks to herself, let's try this again.