Fanfic Archive: Sacrifice 8
May. 28th, 2009 05:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texchan(Written: June, 2004)
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence
Summary: When a mission goes bad, Aya may have to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Omi, and the rest of Weiss learn you don't truly miss something until it's gone.
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Sacrifice
Chapter 8
Heat --- blinding, mind-numbing heat --- beating down on him, scorching his broken, throbbing body and making breathing next to impossible. Rivulets of sweat trickling across his skin, burning and stinging like thousands of needles and pinpoints as they seeped into gaping, bleeding wounds and flowed over broken, raw skin. The throb and ache of arms stretched beyond their limits, nearly pulled from their sockets. Slowly, ever so slowly, these sensations managed to work their way through Aya's exhausted subconscious, pulling him from the deep, engulfing black in which he'd been drifting into the harsh, white-hot, glaring realm of reality.
He didn't want to leave the black. It was soft and inviting. It folded around him like his mother's arms, cradling him, allowing him to forget, and he struggled to remain there. After all, reality had, pretty much, been one nasty bitch so far. But, it was no use. The sensations banging away at his aching body were too much. They refused to let him retreat into the black, into the peace that came from knowing and feeling nothing.
It took a long time and a heroic struggle for control of his body before he managed to raise his head. One glance at his surroundings told him it hadn't been worth the effort. He could only see a few feet in front of him. A bright white, incandescent bulb, hanging directly overhead, illuminated a small space around him. The light was intense and harsh. It threw everything into hard, garish relief, hurt his eye, and, although he wouldn't have thought such a thing possible, made his head throb even more. A chair, liberally splattered with red --- his blood, Aya realized, after staring at it for a moment --- and a puddle of more blood beneath him were his only company within the circle of white-hot light. Outside the glare, there was only darkness.
'Same song … second … verse,' the redhead mused. His thoughts came slowly as he struggled to force his sluggish, pain-numbed mind into action.
Even as the thought came to him, though, he knew it wasn't true. He didn't have any memory of coming to this place, but he knew he wasn't in the warehouse. It had been dark there, too, but not like this. This darkness was close, cramped, small, and oppressive. That darkness had been huge, cavernous, like a great, echoing, metal cave. All in all, though, what did it really matter? Another dark place … another scalding hot light bulb beating down on broken bones and raw, bleeding skin … another hook from the ceiling. For being such a psychotic asshole, Harrister wasn't long on imagination.
Aya was sure Omi had gotten away clean. He had vague recollections --- nothing more than ragged bits and pieces of memory, really --- of the Englishman returning to find the boy gone … asking questions about where Omi was, questions Aya couldn't or wouldn't answer … Harrister's blind rage … the feeling of sharp metal cutting through flesh and muscle … the bone-crunching beating the Englishman had given. All of it tumbled around in Aya's mind, jumbling together into one incoherent mess, but it was enough to tell him Omi was safe and out of Harrister's clutches. The screaming ache and throb that had replaced his body spoke eloquently of the Englishman's impotent, childish fury at being bested in his own game of cat and mouse, and it told him, without a doubt, the boy was safe.
Aya wondered, in a detached, odd sort of way --- as if his mind had taken leave of his body to have a look back at the tattered human being that had, until recently, been its home --- how his death would affect Omi. He had promised the boy he'd stay alive until they came for him. He remembered that clearly, remembered the pain and fear in those wide, almost-innocent, cornflower blue eyes. He'd take that image and the guilt, from not being able to keep his promise, with him to the grave … and, soon, from the way things felt. Aya had no doubt he was going to die here. Everything that should have been easy was too damn hard --- breathing, thinking, seeing, being --- and slipping into the blackness hovering about him, something that should have been hard, was just too damn easy. Before, it had seemed ominous, that blackness --- like a hungry predator waiting to devour him --- something he should fight against with every fiber of his being. But, now … now it seemed so … right. It seemed like he belonged there, as if it was calling to him, promising him rest, relief, and ultimate freedom. He didn't think Omi would stop looking for him. The boy was stubborn that way. And, he thought Yohji, probably, wouldn't give up on him, either. He regretted not being able to keep his promise to the younger blonde. Still, it was worth it, if he could go to Hell with the knowledge Omi was safe, knowing he'd protected the boy. Aya couldn't regret dying … not if his life was the price for Omi's.
He had never allowed himself to show it, and, if pressed, would never have admitted it, but the youngest Weiss was special to him. Although a skilled assassin, the boy, somehow, managed to retain a certain air of childlike innocence, managed to look on the bright side of things, and seemed strong enough that he didn't fear or regret his own existence. Omi was close in age to Aya, his own precious little sister, and the redhead supposed he had, in some way, come to think of the boy as a substitute for her --- a little brother to replace the sister he could no longer reach.
No, he was pretty sure they wouldn't stop searching for him. But, he was just as convinced they wouldn't find him in time. Omi had all the puzzle pieces within reach now, but it would take time for the boy to put them together. Time wasn't something Aya had right now. The black continued to call him, telling him the sands in his particular hour glass were running out, that his life had come down to being measured in hours, instead of years or days. In the end, Aya figured, they would all be better off without him around, and, eventually, after the guilt of what had happened wore off, the others would see it that way, too. He'd never done anything to endear himself to any of them. With him gone, perhaps Kritiker would bring in someone they could really care for, really respect, and really accept as a member of the team.
His biggest regret now was for his sister. What would happen to her once he was gone? The others knew about her, but would they take care of her? Would they look in on her, visit her, make sure she wasn't alone in the world? Kritiker would continue to pay for her care --- that much he was sure of. It had been the price for his soul. But, who would love her? Who would be devoted to her, would care for her, the way he had? The answer, when it came to him, coursed through his body with a fresh, new, kind of pain: no one. Even though he lived and killed with the others, he was alone. He knew that, deep down. He needed them, although he refused to admit it. But, the reverse wasn't true. He knew that, too. With him gone, she would be alone. Still, as the darkness moved in to claim him, offering rest and peace, he couldn't help but think, selfishly, how glad he was he'd never have to face his sister's disappointed, accusing eyes when she learned he was a murderer.
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Roland Harrister traversed the Crazy Geisha's dirty, littered dance floor, gingerly stepping around the layers of debris that buried it at the end of each evening --- paper, bottles, crushed cigarettes, cigarette packages, used needles, empty plastic baggies, stray items of clothing, the occasional weapon. He couldn't help thinking, though, this particular trash wasn't normal. It was from that night --- the night Jackie had died. He hadn't been able to open the club since. Really, there wasn't any point in it. He had only begun operating the night spot for his little brother's benefit, in the first place --- so Jackie would have a safe place where he could pick up partners for his little trysts. Without Jackie, there wasn't any point to anything. Harrister's life had ended that night, at the same instant that red-haired monster had sent Jackie to the other realm.
As thoughts of his captive crowded into his mind, Harrister kicked at a stray bottle with enough force to send it flying through the air and across the room, where it struck the far wall and shattered with a bell-like, tinkling sound. How he hated that man … that murdering asshole who had taken Jackie from him. He'd seen it happen - had seen it, and, yet, had been powerless to prevent it. In the end, he'd been unable to protect Jackie when it had mattered most, and he hated the red-haired bastard for that, most of all. He still saw it --- that murderous demon sweeping out of the darkness, like some vengeful angel of death, cutting Jackie down. The blade, slicing so easily through flesh and bone, had cut the boy nearly in half with a spray of blood as bright as dozens of newly-fallen roses. It haunted him, that image --- haunted every waking and sleeping moment he'd had since that night. In that instant, the very instant Jackie had crossed from this world into the next, Harrister had sworn, without even consciously realizing it, the red-haired swordsman would pay.
Everything had been to protect Jackie --- opening the club, even the other killings. The boy hadn't had anything to do with them, hadn't even known about them. He had done it to protect his little brother, so no one would ever find out about Jackie's sexual preferences. The swordsman would be the last --- his last tribute to his lost brother, and the fulfillment of the promise he'd made Jackie's soul as it had departed this world that night.
But, in all honesty, he couldn't say he was doing the red-haired demon to protect Jackie. After all, his little brother was dead --- dead at this man's hands. No, Jackie didn't need his protection any longer. This man … this last victim … was for revenge and for pleasure --- his pleasure. And, he would be lying if he told himself he hadn't gotten pleasure out of it. The swordsman had given him a lot of joy --- every cut against that perfect, porcelain-like skin; every crunch of breaking bone; every rivulet of red unleashed from that finely-muscled, almost perfect body; every taunt; every threat carried out on the man; every groan and scream of pain wrenched from him --- had sent a twinge of pleasure singing through Harrister's veins. Finally, he had seen resignation and, maybe, a hint of despair, settle in that hard, cold, blue-violet eye. That had given him the most enjoyment yet, had caused his blood to surge and his body to throb in a way he knew he'd never experience again. That was how he'd known this little game was over. Nothing else he could do to the man could possibly give him the pleasure, the pure, sensual excitement, he'd felt at seeing the murdering demon finally broken, at seeing this man, once so proud and mighty, finally accepting the inevitability of his own death.
But, in the end, no matter what he told himself, no matter how much pleasure he'd had at the redhead's expense, Harrister knew he hadn't truly broken the man. He'd gotten resignation and despair, but he'd wanted fear, the kind of true terror that mimicked what Jackie must have felt in those final moments, when he'd seen that murderer bearing down on him out of the shadows. He had wanted the swordsman to beg for his life, or, better yet, for death, but that man had cheated him of these things, had denied him this final pleasure, and had made it impossible for him to truly fulfill the promise he'd made to Jackie. The redhead had accepted his fate, had accepted the fact of his own death. Harrister had seen that much in the man's eye, but the way he accepted it --- so calmly and without any fuss or struggle. It made the Englishman think this man had accepted his fate long ago, before their paths had ever crossed on that fateful night. He had the feeling this man had died, on the inside, a long time ago, and, in the end, there's nothing you can really do to make someone like that suffer the way they should.
'All the more reason to end it now,' Harrister thought. He descended the stairs at the back of the club, which led to the basement. His heavy boots shuffled through the paper and debris scattered there, making the same hurried, scuffling noises the rats made as they scurried from one place to another.
When he reached the bottom, he paused for a moment, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the basement's deeper, murkier darkness. Once he had his bearings, he wound his way through the cases of alcohol stacked in the hallway. He shoved one stack of boxes aside. They fell to the floor with the melodic clinking of breaking glass, revealing a doorway. Harrister paused for a moment or two, just long enough to fish a small key from his front jeans pocket, and then unlocked the door, immediately nudging it open with his foot.
The heavy, metal door swung inward, moving soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a small, cramped, mostly dark room, illuminated by a single incandescent bulb in the middle of the ceiling. A hook hung from the roof, just to the right of the light bulb, and, on it, a battered, bloodied, bruised man. His head was slumped forward, chin touching his chest, and he gave no indication he was aware of this intrusion into his cramped, dark prison. Even from his position in the doorway, Harrister could tell the swordsman was unconscious. He felt a little stab of disappointment. He'd hoped to have one last play session with his prize before ending things.
'Ah … just as well,' the Englishman thought, as he turned from the room with a sigh. He pulled the door closed behind him, but didn't bother locking it. 'It wouldn't have been any fun, anyhow.'
Now, it really was time to bring everything to a close. There were just a few things to do, first.
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The cold rolled from the walk-in freezer in waves, riding the frost-induced fog out of the subzero appliance and into the relative warmth of the surrounding room. Harrister shivered as it floated over his body, gently and persistently breaching the inadequate barriers provided by his jeans and the long-sleeved, pink shirt. Sometimes, in the dead of summer, when the heat was at its worst and it seemed hot enough outside to fry eggs on the sidewalk, he would come down here and stand like this, in the freezer's open door, basking in the waves of cool comfort that rolled out of it with the fog and pretending he was in some icy wasteland. There wasn't any time for those games now, though. He watched as the temperature around the freezer equalized enough so the chilly mist parted, revealing the appliance's contents: mountains of ice - stacked in huge, hulking blocks and in bags; cases of frozen beverages; boxes filled to overflowing with the meat, vegetables, and dessert items available for the club's lunch and early-dinner crowd; and, in the far back corner, sitting on a makeshift throne of ice blocks like some revered, entombed pharaoh surrounded by food offerings, Jackie.
How did it all come to this? How did they get from where they had started to here? How did a man go from living a relatively decent life to standing in an industrial, walk-in freezer, staring at his brother's dead body? Harrister shook his head, trying to cut his mind off before it started wandering down those paths. If he followed the rabbit trails of "why" and "how", he might come to the end and find he had only himself to blame. Perhaps later, once things were done, once everything was finished, he would go to that place. But, right now, he didn't have time, and he didn't have the attention to spare for thoughts like that. He was about to lay his brother to rest, and that was all he wanted occupying his mind at this moment.
Ten strides from his long legs carried Harrister to the back of the freezer, and he paused for a moment, gazing lovingly upon the boy he'd raised, a boy who had barely had the chance to become a man before that red-haired, murdering bastard cut him down. The scene kept playing itself out in his mind, over and over again, like an old movie caught in a never-ending, nightmarish loop, and the Englishman felt hot tears gather in his eyes and spill down his cheeks, where they left cold tracks of moisture. He didn't really know why he had kept the body. Maybe because he couldn't stand the thought of never seeing Jackie again. Maybe because he hadn't been there for Jackie in those final moments, when the boy had really needed him. Maybe because, on some level, he knew and understood Jackie's destruction was his fault, the price for his sins. For whatever reason, he just hadn't been able to let go that night. But, now … now it was time.
He reached out with a shaking hand and stroked Jackie's hair. It was cold, stiff, and brittle under his fingers, as if even the gentlest touch would shatter it. His hand moved down, almost of its own accord, to stroke the boy's frozen cheek. How he longed to feel warm skin under his palm, not this frostbitten, freezer-burned remnant of the beautiful, innocent boy who had been his brother. He ached to see that light in Jackie's eyes once again --- that sparkling, mischievous, teasing expression that had seemed bright enough to light up the entire world. It had drawn everyone to the boy, had shown the whole world how special Jackie was. His soul cried out for the chance to hear the boy's voice --- clear, innocent, teasing --- just once more. The sound of Jackie's voice had brightened his life, and he felt he would give anything … anything in the world … just to hear it again. He strained his ears, as if, by some miracle, he could hear it … could hear Jackie's voice one last time. But, there was only the low, electrical hum of the freezer's motor, the plip-plop of water dripping from the condenser, and the crackling noise of ice slowly melting as the warmth from the hallway pushed its way into this small, frozen world.
Suddenly, reality hit him, screaming full-force into his brain like some deranged harpy on speed, and, in a cruel twist of irony, bringing the first lucid moment … the first inkling of sanity … Harrister had had since that first kill. It was so long ago … he could barely remember it. He stared down at his brother's frozen corpse, at his hand resting against Jackie's cheek, warm, living flesh pressed against cold death, and, in that instant, in seeing that slim thread binding life and death together in this one moment, Harrister knew. He knew he had the answer to all his questions, to all his "whys" and "hows". He was the one. He had brought them here, had brought them to this. He had meant only good, had intended only to protect his brother, but, somehow, it had all gone wrong.
Harrister had fought back the grief from that night. He had clung to his anger, his hatred, his horror, telling himself those emotions would give him the strength he needed to fuel his burning desire for revenge. He had told himself to remain strong, for Jackie, to make that murderer pay for what he had done to the boy. But, grief is a funny emotion. It won't be denied. Just when you think you've conquered it, just when you think you've pushed it away, it comes creeping back to set up camp in your soul when you least expect it. And, now, it came back to Roland Harrister. He didn't want it. He didn't have time for it, not right now, but it came, all the same. He felt it swoop in and cover his soul with its wings, a mother bird protecting her chick, and he fought it.
Harrister managed, just barely, to choke back a sob as he reached for his brother, to gather the boy in his arms for one last, loving embrace. Jackie's body was stiff, frozen solid, and wouldn't bend into the Englishman's gentle, protective hug. It was like holding a board, but, still, Harrister refused to let go, refused to release his hold even when the chill from Jackie's body had settled into his, making him shiver. In this, the cruelest twist yet, Fate seemed determined to deny him this last, final comfort, to refuse him even the smallest salve for his broken heart and tortured, crumbling soul.
As the full weight of his grief settled on him, the Englishman sank to his knees, too broken and exhausted to remain standing, no longer able to bear up under the double weight of the grief rushing in to claim him and the reality that this was all by his own hand. The first sob managed to break free from Harrister's shuddering, shaking body, and, then, it was as if a dam had burst. Huge, gasping, choking sobs wrenched from him, echoing around and around the small space, filling the freezer with the sounds of mind-shattering grief, unbearable loss, and heartbreaking sorrow.
"Oh … God … Jackie … Jackie. Why … why did it have to be … you? It … was me … all along … it should have been … me," Harrister mumbled.
The words tumbled out, broken, almost incoherent, all but lost in the sound of the Englishman's choking sobs. They rode from his soul on the wave of his grief, to hang in the frozen air and then crash to the floor, where they seemed to break, brittle and hard as old glass. Harrister clutched Jackie's body to him, rocking back and forth, back and forth, unable to stem the anguish pouring from him. His sobs continued to ratchet around the small, frozen room. The tears flowed so freely, he believed they would never stop. They ran warm from his eyes and traced chilled paths down his cheeks, tiny rivers into which he poured all his anguish, grief, sorrow, loss, and heartbreak. They fell onto Jackie's frozen features, sparkling for a moment, and, then, freezing. The frost on the floor where he knelt melted under him, leaving frigid patches of wet on Harrister's jeans, and the chill radiating from Jackie's corpse slowly took over the Englishman's body, until he could hardly force the retching, choking sobs out for the violent shivers that ran shuddering through him. But, still, he remained --- cradling the dead, frozen boy, rocking back and forth, shoulders heaving as he cried, and listening to the sound of his anguish fill the room around him.
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A few hours later, the Englishman found himself, once again, in the open doorway of his hidden basement room, staring at the battered, bloody man hanging there. He was spent, exhausted, now that he had, finally, given in to the grief he'd held back for so long. As he stared at the man in front of him, Harrister couldn't help but think about that boy, the other he'd held captive for a while. That boy had reminded him, in so many ways, of Jackie, which was probably what had saved the young blonde, in the end. But, the Englishman couldn't help but remember something else --- the way this man, who he had vilified and come to think of as less than human … nothing more than a red-haired, murdering, angel of death --- had protected that boy. He had given his life for that boy's safety, just like Harrister would have been willing to lay down his life for Jackie's protection. When he thought of that, the Englishman found he didn't see his captive as a monster any more. He only saw a man --- a man selflessly devoted to those he cared for, a man willing to do anything, sacrifice anything for the safety of those in his world, a man who had struggled but, in the end, lost everything. That was it --- no monster, no demon, no murderer … just a dying man. Harrister found, even for all that had happened, he just couldn't hate this man. Not any more.
The Englishman sighed and entered the room, dragging the chair over to where his captive hung. Its legs made a loud screeching noise as they slid across the concrete floor. It reverberated and echoed around the little space and made shivers run up Harrister's spine, like fingernails across a chalkboard. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret, now that it was almost over. This man … Harrister had never met another like him … and he couldn't help wondering what might have happened, if they had met under different circumstances.
'Probably nothing,' he thought, shrugging off the unease that had settled on him so suddenly, 'Some things … just not meant to be.'
The Englishman pulled the chair close and carefully, struggling to balance his muscular bulk on its narrow seat, climbed up and leaned in, so his lips just brushed his captive's ear.
"We're so much alike, you and I," he whispered, his breath barely stirring the long tail of hair and dangling golden earring.
Harrister fingered the earring for a moment, and, then, on an impulse, gently removed it from the redhead's ear. He slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans, even as he wondered why he wanted something of this man. He hadn't kept any kind of souvenirs before, hadn't wanted to remember any of his other victims. But, this man … he was different. Pushing the thoughts aside, Harrister cut the ropes attaching his captive to the overhead hook and lowered the swordsman's battered body to the floor.
He gathered the redhead's broken body into his arms and carried him up the stairs and the short distance across the Geisha's littered dance floor to the back exit and the loading dock, where he had left a rented van waiting. The coffin he'd purchased for Jackie was inside the van, and he'd already entombed the boy's frozen body within it. Harrister lugged his captive into the back of the vehicle, heedless of the blood that stained his clothes, opened the coffin lid, and, ever so gently, laid his final victim, his final tribute to Jackie, inside. The Englishman stared for a few moments, struggling to imprint every detail of this scene on his mind, and, then, ever so slowly, lowered the lid. It creaked out in protest, and Harrister winced at the sound … the final slamming of the gates of doom.
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The sun was just beginning to rise, spreading soft rays of light and sending pink tendrils of color across the early morning gray of the sky, when Harrister pulled into the garage of his townhouse. He sat in the silent van for a few minutes, thinking about the recent events in his life. He had thought he was being so clever with those killings. Nothing would lead back to him, the club, or Jackie; he had made certain of that. But, somehow, he had messed up. The unthinkable had happened.
He had adored his little brother, had worshipped the boy, and had struggled to give Jackie everything his heart desired. Somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself he had to kill the men Jackie brought home, that it was necessary to protect the boy from the world's judgment and prying eyes. But, in the end, he had been the only one judging his brother's decisions and choices. Now, he was coming to realize, for the first time, he had been unable to accept Jackie's sexual preferences. But, realizing he had felt that way didn't make it make sense. After all, he was gay, too. He had even been attracted to that redhead, had watched the man for several nights at the club. On that last night, he had approached him, thinking the aloof, icy man would look very attractive warming his bed.
So, how could he be so hypocritical? How could what was fine for him not be all right for Jackie's life? He had suffered so much pain in his life because of being gay. He hadn't wanted that for Jackie, for the boy he had raised after their parents' death, who was more son to him than brother. He had struggled to shield Jackie from that life, going to great lengths to hide his own sexual preference from the boy, in the mistaken belief doing so would allow Jackie to be "normal", in the foolish conviction the boy wouldn't be like him. Somehow, Harrister realized now, he had twisted everything around in his mind until he believed the men Jackie brought home were at fault. In the end, it was his own misplaced, twisted, hypocritical intolerance that had led to the boy's death.
"How did I become such a fool?" he wondered aloud as he exited the van and climbed the stairs leading from the garage into the kitchen.
He walked through the kitchen without stopping, although he tossed the van keys onto the counter as he exited through the door leading into the living room. He crossed the living room without slowing down, and took the stairs leading to the second floor. He traversed the hall, quickly coming to the last door on the right, which led into his study. Harrister shoved the door open, causing it to swing back and strike the wall behind it with a loud "bam", but he ignored the noise. He quickly crossed the room and slid into the huge, overstuffed, leather chair that stood behind his monstrous, mahogany desk. Then, he stopped, staring in disbelief at his reflection in the highly polished wooden surface. Who was this man staring back at him? Harrister had always taken great pride in his appearance, and this man, the one he saw in his reflection … well, it wasn't him. It couldn't be. His normally well-groomed hair was disheveled and out of place. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was ghostly pale. His clothes, usually spotlessly clean and well-pressed, were dirty, bloodstained, and wrinkled. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair and sighed, a noise that sounded loud in the eerie quiet of this room and his house. He had a hard time believing he could have fallen so low, but, all in all, he figured it didn't matter all that much now.
Harrister sighed again and shifted his weight, leaning back a bit in the chair so he could fumble through his front jeans pocket and pull out the long, dangling, gold earring he had taken from the redhead. Early morning sunlight poured in through the windows at his back, and he held the piece of jewelry up, twisting his hand slightly so the dangling bar could swing and catch the light. It sparkled. It was such a feminine piece --- an odd thing for a man to wear --- and Harrister couldn't help but wonder why that man had had it, why the redhead had worn it as if it was a badge of honor. As he stared at the earring, holding it dangling between his index finger and thumb, Harrister couldn't help but think the redhead was everything he had hoped to be but never could. That man hadn't betrayed those he loved --- had fought for them, fought to protect them, until the bitter end --- at least, if his actions toward that blonde boy had been any indication. Harrister couldn't help but wish he'd had the strength to do the same for Jackie, that he'd had the courage to stand by his little brother, instead of taking the path he had, a path which had, ultimately, destroyed the very thing he wanted to protect.
"Why couldn't I have been like that?" the Englishman muttered. He clenched his fist around the small piece of jewelry with enough force that the post pricked his hand and drew blood, as he turned his attention to digging through the desk drawers.
It only took him a few minutes to find what he wanted. The gun was in one of the lower drawers, buried under some business papers. He pulled it out and tested its weight in the palm of his hand. It was heavy, solid. He slid the magazine out to make sure it was loaded, and, then, held the gun up a bit, staring at it. The early morning sunlight glinted off it, and, by some optical illusion, seemed to turn the shiny, silver barrel a rosy shade of pink.
"I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, Jackie," he muttered as he stuffed the gun's barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The explosion, which sounded just like a car backfiring, broke the early morning silence and startled a flock of birds into flight from a nearby tree.
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence
Summary: When a mission goes bad, Aya may have to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Omi, and the rest of Weiss learn you don't truly miss something until it's gone.
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Chapter 8
Heat --- blinding, mind-numbing heat --- beating down on him, scorching his broken, throbbing body and making breathing next to impossible. Rivulets of sweat trickling across his skin, burning and stinging like thousands of needles and pinpoints as they seeped into gaping, bleeding wounds and flowed over broken, raw skin. The throb and ache of arms stretched beyond their limits, nearly pulled from their sockets. Slowly, ever so slowly, these sensations managed to work their way through Aya's exhausted subconscious, pulling him from the deep, engulfing black in which he'd been drifting into the harsh, white-hot, glaring realm of reality.
He didn't want to leave the black. It was soft and inviting. It folded around him like his mother's arms, cradling him, allowing him to forget, and he struggled to remain there. After all, reality had, pretty much, been one nasty bitch so far. But, it was no use. The sensations banging away at his aching body were too much. They refused to let him retreat into the black, into the peace that came from knowing and feeling nothing.
It took a long time and a heroic struggle for control of his body before he managed to raise his head. One glance at his surroundings told him it hadn't been worth the effort. He could only see a few feet in front of him. A bright white, incandescent bulb, hanging directly overhead, illuminated a small space around him. The light was intense and harsh. It threw everything into hard, garish relief, hurt his eye, and, although he wouldn't have thought such a thing possible, made his head throb even more. A chair, liberally splattered with red --- his blood, Aya realized, after staring at it for a moment --- and a puddle of more blood beneath him were his only company within the circle of white-hot light. Outside the glare, there was only darkness.
'Same song … second … verse,' the redhead mused. His thoughts came slowly as he struggled to force his sluggish, pain-numbed mind into action.
Even as the thought came to him, though, he knew it wasn't true. He didn't have any memory of coming to this place, but he knew he wasn't in the warehouse. It had been dark there, too, but not like this. This darkness was close, cramped, small, and oppressive. That darkness had been huge, cavernous, like a great, echoing, metal cave. All in all, though, what did it really matter? Another dark place … another scalding hot light bulb beating down on broken bones and raw, bleeding skin … another hook from the ceiling. For being such a psychotic asshole, Harrister wasn't long on imagination.
Aya was sure Omi had gotten away clean. He had vague recollections --- nothing more than ragged bits and pieces of memory, really --- of the Englishman returning to find the boy gone … asking questions about where Omi was, questions Aya couldn't or wouldn't answer … Harrister's blind rage … the feeling of sharp metal cutting through flesh and muscle … the bone-crunching beating the Englishman had given. All of it tumbled around in Aya's mind, jumbling together into one incoherent mess, but it was enough to tell him Omi was safe and out of Harrister's clutches. The screaming ache and throb that had replaced his body spoke eloquently of the Englishman's impotent, childish fury at being bested in his own game of cat and mouse, and it told him, without a doubt, the boy was safe.
Aya wondered, in a detached, odd sort of way --- as if his mind had taken leave of his body to have a look back at the tattered human being that had, until recently, been its home --- how his death would affect Omi. He had promised the boy he'd stay alive until they came for him. He remembered that clearly, remembered the pain and fear in those wide, almost-innocent, cornflower blue eyes. He'd take that image and the guilt, from not being able to keep his promise, with him to the grave … and, soon, from the way things felt. Aya had no doubt he was going to die here. Everything that should have been easy was too damn hard --- breathing, thinking, seeing, being --- and slipping into the blackness hovering about him, something that should have been hard, was just too damn easy. Before, it had seemed ominous, that blackness --- like a hungry predator waiting to devour him --- something he should fight against with every fiber of his being. But, now … now it seemed so … right. It seemed like he belonged there, as if it was calling to him, promising him rest, relief, and ultimate freedom. He didn't think Omi would stop looking for him. The boy was stubborn that way. And, he thought Yohji, probably, wouldn't give up on him, either. He regretted not being able to keep his promise to the younger blonde. Still, it was worth it, if he could go to Hell with the knowledge Omi was safe, knowing he'd protected the boy. Aya couldn't regret dying … not if his life was the price for Omi's.
He had never allowed himself to show it, and, if pressed, would never have admitted it, but the youngest Weiss was special to him. Although a skilled assassin, the boy, somehow, managed to retain a certain air of childlike innocence, managed to look on the bright side of things, and seemed strong enough that he didn't fear or regret his own existence. Omi was close in age to Aya, his own precious little sister, and the redhead supposed he had, in some way, come to think of the boy as a substitute for her --- a little brother to replace the sister he could no longer reach.
No, he was pretty sure they wouldn't stop searching for him. But, he was just as convinced they wouldn't find him in time. Omi had all the puzzle pieces within reach now, but it would take time for the boy to put them together. Time wasn't something Aya had right now. The black continued to call him, telling him the sands in his particular hour glass were running out, that his life had come down to being measured in hours, instead of years or days. In the end, Aya figured, they would all be better off without him around, and, eventually, after the guilt of what had happened wore off, the others would see it that way, too. He'd never done anything to endear himself to any of them. With him gone, perhaps Kritiker would bring in someone they could really care for, really respect, and really accept as a member of the team.
His biggest regret now was for his sister. What would happen to her once he was gone? The others knew about her, but would they take care of her? Would they look in on her, visit her, make sure she wasn't alone in the world? Kritiker would continue to pay for her care --- that much he was sure of. It had been the price for his soul. But, who would love her? Who would be devoted to her, would care for her, the way he had? The answer, when it came to him, coursed through his body with a fresh, new, kind of pain: no one. Even though he lived and killed with the others, he was alone. He knew that, deep down. He needed them, although he refused to admit it. But, the reverse wasn't true. He knew that, too. With him gone, she would be alone. Still, as the darkness moved in to claim him, offering rest and peace, he couldn't help but think, selfishly, how glad he was he'd never have to face his sister's disappointed, accusing eyes when she learned he was a murderer.
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Roland Harrister traversed the Crazy Geisha's dirty, littered dance floor, gingerly stepping around the layers of debris that buried it at the end of each evening --- paper, bottles, crushed cigarettes, cigarette packages, used needles, empty plastic baggies, stray items of clothing, the occasional weapon. He couldn't help thinking, though, this particular trash wasn't normal. It was from that night --- the night Jackie had died. He hadn't been able to open the club since. Really, there wasn't any point in it. He had only begun operating the night spot for his little brother's benefit, in the first place --- so Jackie would have a safe place where he could pick up partners for his little trysts. Without Jackie, there wasn't any point to anything. Harrister's life had ended that night, at the same instant that red-haired monster had sent Jackie to the other realm.
As thoughts of his captive crowded into his mind, Harrister kicked at a stray bottle with enough force to send it flying through the air and across the room, where it struck the far wall and shattered with a bell-like, tinkling sound. How he hated that man … that murdering asshole who had taken Jackie from him. He'd seen it happen - had seen it, and, yet, had been powerless to prevent it. In the end, he'd been unable to protect Jackie when it had mattered most, and he hated the red-haired bastard for that, most of all. He still saw it --- that murderous demon sweeping out of the darkness, like some vengeful angel of death, cutting Jackie down. The blade, slicing so easily through flesh and bone, had cut the boy nearly in half with a spray of blood as bright as dozens of newly-fallen roses. It haunted him, that image --- haunted every waking and sleeping moment he'd had since that night. In that instant, the very instant Jackie had crossed from this world into the next, Harrister had sworn, without even consciously realizing it, the red-haired swordsman would pay.
Everything had been to protect Jackie --- opening the club, even the other killings. The boy hadn't had anything to do with them, hadn't even known about them. He had done it to protect his little brother, so no one would ever find out about Jackie's sexual preferences. The swordsman would be the last --- his last tribute to his lost brother, and the fulfillment of the promise he'd made Jackie's soul as it had departed this world that night.
But, in all honesty, he couldn't say he was doing the red-haired demon to protect Jackie. After all, his little brother was dead --- dead at this man's hands. No, Jackie didn't need his protection any longer. This man … this last victim … was for revenge and for pleasure --- his pleasure. And, he would be lying if he told himself he hadn't gotten pleasure out of it. The swordsman had given him a lot of joy --- every cut against that perfect, porcelain-like skin; every crunch of breaking bone; every rivulet of red unleashed from that finely-muscled, almost perfect body; every taunt; every threat carried out on the man; every groan and scream of pain wrenched from him --- had sent a twinge of pleasure singing through Harrister's veins. Finally, he had seen resignation and, maybe, a hint of despair, settle in that hard, cold, blue-violet eye. That had given him the most enjoyment yet, had caused his blood to surge and his body to throb in a way he knew he'd never experience again. That was how he'd known this little game was over. Nothing else he could do to the man could possibly give him the pleasure, the pure, sensual excitement, he'd felt at seeing the murdering demon finally broken, at seeing this man, once so proud and mighty, finally accepting the inevitability of his own death.
But, in the end, no matter what he told himself, no matter how much pleasure he'd had at the redhead's expense, Harrister knew he hadn't truly broken the man. He'd gotten resignation and despair, but he'd wanted fear, the kind of true terror that mimicked what Jackie must have felt in those final moments, when he'd seen that murderer bearing down on him out of the shadows. He had wanted the swordsman to beg for his life, or, better yet, for death, but that man had cheated him of these things, had denied him this final pleasure, and had made it impossible for him to truly fulfill the promise he'd made to Jackie. The redhead had accepted his fate, had accepted the fact of his own death. Harrister had seen that much in the man's eye, but the way he accepted it --- so calmly and without any fuss or struggle. It made the Englishman think this man had accepted his fate long ago, before their paths had ever crossed on that fateful night. He had the feeling this man had died, on the inside, a long time ago, and, in the end, there's nothing you can really do to make someone like that suffer the way they should.
'All the more reason to end it now,' Harrister thought. He descended the stairs at the back of the club, which led to the basement. His heavy boots shuffled through the paper and debris scattered there, making the same hurried, scuffling noises the rats made as they scurried from one place to another.
When he reached the bottom, he paused for a moment, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the basement's deeper, murkier darkness. Once he had his bearings, he wound his way through the cases of alcohol stacked in the hallway. He shoved one stack of boxes aside. They fell to the floor with the melodic clinking of breaking glass, revealing a doorway. Harrister paused for a moment or two, just long enough to fish a small key from his front jeans pocket, and then unlocked the door, immediately nudging it open with his foot.
The heavy, metal door swung inward, moving soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a small, cramped, mostly dark room, illuminated by a single incandescent bulb in the middle of the ceiling. A hook hung from the roof, just to the right of the light bulb, and, on it, a battered, bloodied, bruised man. His head was slumped forward, chin touching his chest, and he gave no indication he was aware of this intrusion into his cramped, dark prison. Even from his position in the doorway, Harrister could tell the swordsman was unconscious. He felt a little stab of disappointment. He'd hoped to have one last play session with his prize before ending things.
'Ah … just as well,' the Englishman thought, as he turned from the room with a sigh. He pulled the door closed behind him, but didn't bother locking it. 'It wouldn't have been any fun, anyhow.'
Now, it really was time to bring everything to a close. There were just a few things to do, first.
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The cold rolled from the walk-in freezer in waves, riding the frost-induced fog out of the subzero appliance and into the relative warmth of the surrounding room. Harrister shivered as it floated over his body, gently and persistently breaching the inadequate barriers provided by his jeans and the long-sleeved, pink shirt. Sometimes, in the dead of summer, when the heat was at its worst and it seemed hot enough outside to fry eggs on the sidewalk, he would come down here and stand like this, in the freezer's open door, basking in the waves of cool comfort that rolled out of it with the fog and pretending he was in some icy wasteland. There wasn't any time for those games now, though. He watched as the temperature around the freezer equalized enough so the chilly mist parted, revealing the appliance's contents: mountains of ice - stacked in huge, hulking blocks and in bags; cases of frozen beverages; boxes filled to overflowing with the meat, vegetables, and dessert items available for the club's lunch and early-dinner crowd; and, in the far back corner, sitting on a makeshift throne of ice blocks like some revered, entombed pharaoh surrounded by food offerings, Jackie.
How did it all come to this? How did they get from where they had started to here? How did a man go from living a relatively decent life to standing in an industrial, walk-in freezer, staring at his brother's dead body? Harrister shook his head, trying to cut his mind off before it started wandering down those paths. If he followed the rabbit trails of "why" and "how", he might come to the end and find he had only himself to blame. Perhaps later, once things were done, once everything was finished, he would go to that place. But, right now, he didn't have time, and he didn't have the attention to spare for thoughts like that. He was about to lay his brother to rest, and that was all he wanted occupying his mind at this moment.
Ten strides from his long legs carried Harrister to the back of the freezer, and he paused for a moment, gazing lovingly upon the boy he'd raised, a boy who had barely had the chance to become a man before that red-haired, murdering bastard cut him down. The scene kept playing itself out in his mind, over and over again, like an old movie caught in a never-ending, nightmarish loop, and the Englishman felt hot tears gather in his eyes and spill down his cheeks, where they left cold tracks of moisture. He didn't really know why he had kept the body. Maybe because he couldn't stand the thought of never seeing Jackie again. Maybe because he hadn't been there for Jackie in those final moments, when the boy had really needed him. Maybe because, on some level, he knew and understood Jackie's destruction was his fault, the price for his sins. For whatever reason, he just hadn't been able to let go that night. But, now … now it was time.
He reached out with a shaking hand and stroked Jackie's hair. It was cold, stiff, and brittle under his fingers, as if even the gentlest touch would shatter it. His hand moved down, almost of its own accord, to stroke the boy's frozen cheek. How he longed to feel warm skin under his palm, not this frostbitten, freezer-burned remnant of the beautiful, innocent boy who had been his brother. He ached to see that light in Jackie's eyes once again --- that sparkling, mischievous, teasing expression that had seemed bright enough to light up the entire world. It had drawn everyone to the boy, had shown the whole world how special Jackie was. His soul cried out for the chance to hear the boy's voice --- clear, innocent, teasing --- just once more. The sound of Jackie's voice had brightened his life, and he felt he would give anything … anything in the world … just to hear it again. He strained his ears, as if, by some miracle, he could hear it … could hear Jackie's voice one last time. But, there was only the low, electrical hum of the freezer's motor, the plip-plop of water dripping from the condenser, and the crackling noise of ice slowly melting as the warmth from the hallway pushed its way into this small, frozen world.
Suddenly, reality hit him, screaming full-force into his brain like some deranged harpy on speed, and, in a cruel twist of irony, bringing the first lucid moment … the first inkling of sanity … Harrister had had since that first kill. It was so long ago … he could barely remember it. He stared down at his brother's frozen corpse, at his hand resting against Jackie's cheek, warm, living flesh pressed against cold death, and, in that instant, in seeing that slim thread binding life and death together in this one moment, Harrister knew. He knew he had the answer to all his questions, to all his "whys" and "hows". He was the one. He had brought them here, had brought them to this. He had meant only good, had intended only to protect his brother, but, somehow, it had all gone wrong.
Harrister had fought back the grief from that night. He had clung to his anger, his hatred, his horror, telling himself those emotions would give him the strength he needed to fuel his burning desire for revenge. He had told himself to remain strong, for Jackie, to make that murderer pay for what he had done to the boy. But, grief is a funny emotion. It won't be denied. Just when you think you've conquered it, just when you think you've pushed it away, it comes creeping back to set up camp in your soul when you least expect it. And, now, it came back to Roland Harrister. He didn't want it. He didn't have time for it, not right now, but it came, all the same. He felt it swoop in and cover his soul with its wings, a mother bird protecting her chick, and he fought it.
Harrister managed, just barely, to choke back a sob as he reached for his brother, to gather the boy in his arms for one last, loving embrace. Jackie's body was stiff, frozen solid, and wouldn't bend into the Englishman's gentle, protective hug. It was like holding a board, but, still, Harrister refused to let go, refused to release his hold even when the chill from Jackie's body had settled into his, making him shiver. In this, the cruelest twist yet, Fate seemed determined to deny him this last, final comfort, to refuse him even the smallest salve for his broken heart and tortured, crumbling soul.
As the full weight of his grief settled on him, the Englishman sank to his knees, too broken and exhausted to remain standing, no longer able to bear up under the double weight of the grief rushing in to claim him and the reality that this was all by his own hand. The first sob managed to break free from Harrister's shuddering, shaking body, and, then, it was as if a dam had burst. Huge, gasping, choking sobs wrenched from him, echoing around and around the small space, filling the freezer with the sounds of mind-shattering grief, unbearable loss, and heartbreaking sorrow.
"Oh … God … Jackie … Jackie. Why … why did it have to be … you? It … was me … all along … it should have been … me," Harrister mumbled.
The words tumbled out, broken, almost incoherent, all but lost in the sound of the Englishman's choking sobs. They rode from his soul on the wave of his grief, to hang in the frozen air and then crash to the floor, where they seemed to break, brittle and hard as old glass. Harrister clutched Jackie's body to him, rocking back and forth, back and forth, unable to stem the anguish pouring from him. His sobs continued to ratchet around the small, frozen room. The tears flowed so freely, he believed they would never stop. They ran warm from his eyes and traced chilled paths down his cheeks, tiny rivers into which he poured all his anguish, grief, sorrow, loss, and heartbreak. They fell onto Jackie's frozen features, sparkling for a moment, and, then, freezing. The frost on the floor where he knelt melted under him, leaving frigid patches of wet on Harrister's jeans, and the chill radiating from Jackie's corpse slowly took over the Englishman's body, until he could hardly force the retching, choking sobs out for the violent shivers that ran shuddering through him. But, still, he remained --- cradling the dead, frozen boy, rocking back and forth, shoulders heaving as he cried, and listening to the sound of his anguish fill the room around him.
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A few hours later, the Englishman found himself, once again, in the open doorway of his hidden basement room, staring at the battered, bloody man hanging there. He was spent, exhausted, now that he had, finally, given in to the grief he'd held back for so long. As he stared at the man in front of him, Harrister couldn't help but think about that boy, the other he'd held captive for a while. That boy had reminded him, in so many ways, of Jackie, which was probably what had saved the young blonde, in the end. But, the Englishman couldn't help but remember something else --- the way this man, who he had vilified and come to think of as less than human … nothing more than a red-haired, murdering, angel of death --- had protected that boy. He had given his life for that boy's safety, just like Harrister would have been willing to lay down his life for Jackie's protection. When he thought of that, the Englishman found he didn't see his captive as a monster any more. He only saw a man --- a man selflessly devoted to those he cared for, a man willing to do anything, sacrifice anything for the safety of those in his world, a man who had struggled but, in the end, lost everything. That was it --- no monster, no demon, no murderer … just a dying man. Harrister found, even for all that had happened, he just couldn't hate this man. Not any more.
The Englishman sighed and entered the room, dragging the chair over to where his captive hung. Its legs made a loud screeching noise as they slid across the concrete floor. It reverberated and echoed around the little space and made shivers run up Harrister's spine, like fingernails across a chalkboard. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret, now that it was almost over. This man … Harrister had never met another like him … and he couldn't help wondering what might have happened, if they had met under different circumstances.
'Probably nothing,' he thought, shrugging off the unease that had settled on him so suddenly, 'Some things … just not meant to be.'
The Englishman pulled the chair close and carefully, struggling to balance his muscular bulk on its narrow seat, climbed up and leaned in, so his lips just brushed his captive's ear.
"We're so much alike, you and I," he whispered, his breath barely stirring the long tail of hair and dangling golden earring.
Harrister fingered the earring for a moment, and, then, on an impulse, gently removed it from the redhead's ear. He slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans, even as he wondered why he wanted something of this man. He hadn't kept any kind of souvenirs before, hadn't wanted to remember any of his other victims. But, this man … he was different. Pushing the thoughts aside, Harrister cut the ropes attaching his captive to the overhead hook and lowered the swordsman's battered body to the floor.
He gathered the redhead's broken body into his arms and carried him up the stairs and the short distance across the Geisha's littered dance floor to the back exit and the loading dock, where he had left a rented van waiting. The coffin he'd purchased for Jackie was inside the van, and he'd already entombed the boy's frozen body within it. Harrister lugged his captive into the back of the vehicle, heedless of the blood that stained his clothes, opened the coffin lid, and, ever so gently, laid his final victim, his final tribute to Jackie, inside. The Englishman stared for a few moments, struggling to imprint every detail of this scene on his mind, and, then, ever so slowly, lowered the lid. It creaked out in protest, and Harrister winced at the sound … the final slamming of the gates of doom.
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The sun was just beginning to rise, spreading soft rays of light and sending pink tendrils of color across the early morning gray of the sky, when Harrister pulled into the garage of his townhouse. He sat in the silent van for a few minutes, thinking about the recent events in his life. He had thought he was being so clever with those killings. Nothing would lead back to him, the club, or Jackie; he had made certain of that. But, somehow, he had messed up. The unthinkable had happened.
He had adored his little brother, had worshipped the boy, and had struggled to give Jackie everything his heart desired. Somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself he had to kill the men Jackie brought home, that it was necessary to protect the boy from the world's judgment and prying eyes. But, in the end, he had been the only one judging his brother's decisions and choices. Now, he was coming to realize, for the first time, he had been unable to accept Jackie's sexual preferences. But, realizing he had felt that way didn't make it make sense. After all, he was gay, too. He had even been attracted to that redhead, had watched the man for several nights at the club. On that last night, he had approached him, thinking the aloof, icy man would look very attractive warming his bed.
So, how could he be so hypocritical? How could what was fine for him not be all right for Jackie's life? He had suffered so much pain in his life because of being gay. He hadn't wanted that for Jackie, for the boy he had raised after their parents' death, who was more son to him than brother. He had struggled to shield Jackie from that life, going to great lengths to hide his own sexual preference from the boy, in the mistaken belief doing so would allow Jackie to be "normal", in the foolish conviction the boy wouldn't be like him. Somehow, Harrister realized now, he had twisted everything around in his mind until he believed the men Jackie brought home were at fault. In the end, it was his own misplaced, twisted, hypocritical intolerance that had led to the boy's death.
"How did I become such a fool?" he wondered aloud as he exited the van and climbed the stairs leading from the garage into the kitchen.
He walked through the kitchen without stopping, although he tossed the van keys onto the counter as he exited through the door leading into the living room. He crossed the living room without slowing down, and took the stairs leading to the second floor. He traversed the hall, quickly coming to the last door on the right, which led into his study. Harrister shoved the door open, causing it to swing back and strike the wall behind it with a loud "bam", but he ignored the noise. He quickly crossed the room and slid into the huge, overstuffed, leather chair that stood behind his monstrous, mahogany desk. Then, he stopped, staring in disbelief at his reflection in the highly polished wooden surface. Who was this man staring back at him? Harrister had always taken great pride in his appearance, and this man, the one he saw in his reflection … well, it wasn't him. It couldn't be. His normally well-groomed hair was disheveled and out of place. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was ghostly pale. His clothes, usually spotlessly clean and well-pressed, were dirty, bloodstained, and wrinkled. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair and sighed, a noise that sounded loud in the eerie quiet of this room and his house. He had a hard time believing he could have fallen so low, but, all in all, he figured it didn't matter all that much now.
Harrister sighed again and shifted his weight, leaning back a bit in the chair so he could fumble through his front jeans pocket and pull out the long, dangling, gold earring he had taken from the redhead. Early morning sunlight poured in through the windows at his back, and he held the piece of jewelry up, twisting his hand slightly so the dangling bar could swing and catch the light. It sparkled. It was such a feminine piece --- an odd thing for a man to wear --- and Harrister couldn't help but wonder why that man had had it, why the redhead had worn it as if it was a badge of honor. As he stared at the earring, holding it dangling between his index finger and thumb, Harrister couldn't help but think the redhead was everything he had hoped to be but never could. That man hadn't betrayed those he loved --- had fought for them, fought to protect them, until the bitter end --- at least, if his actions toward that blonde boy had been any indication. Harrister couldn't help but wish he'd had the strength to do the same for Jackie, that he'd had the courage to stand by his little brother, instead of taking the path he had, a path which had, ultimately, destroyed the very thing he wanted to protect.
"Why couldn't I have been like that?" the Englishman muttered. He clenched his fist around the small piece of jewelry with enough force that the post pricked his hand and drew blood, as he turned his attention to digging through the desk drawers.
It only took him a few minutes to find what he wanted. The gun was in one of the lower drawers, buried under some business papers. He pulled it out and tested its weight in the palm of his hand. It was heavy, solid. He slid the magazine out to make sure it was loaded, and, then, held the gun up a bit, staring at it. The early morning sunlight glinted off it, and, by some optical illusion, seemed to turn the shiny, silver barrel a rosy shade of pink.
"I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, Jackie," he muttered as he stuffed the gun's barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The explosion, which sounded just like a car backfiring, broke the early morning silence and startled a flock of birds into flight from a nearby tree.